Chapter 12 - Tikhon #2
I kiss her—slow, deep, trying to pour everything I feel into it because I still can’t say it all out loud. When I finally pull away, I lean my forehead against hers.
“I love you too,” I say, voice rough. “More than anything.”
She glows at me, then curls up closer, fitting herself into me like she belongs there.
We stay like that for ages. Just breathing together, our hearts beating in step. Outside, the city keeps grinding on, Fadir’s shadow still hanging over us. But here, with her in my arms, I feel something I haven’t touched in years.
Hope.
And something sharper—the knowledge that I’d burn the world down before I let anyone take this away from us.
Afternoon light cuts through the windows.
We talk more—about Fadir, about pieces of my past I’ve kept locked up.
My fingers still move over her back as I speak.
“He wasn’t always like this. Grew up in the slums, same as Viktor.
But Viktor used power as a tool. Fadir… it was always a game to him.
His old man was a drunk who beat him half to death most nights.
By fifteen, Fadir killed him. Did it slow, with a wire.
Told Viktor it was practice. Viktor just laughed and brought him in as muscle.
But Fadir got worse—went from shaking down kids for lunch money to something darker.
People whispered he’d stalk rivals’ families, learn their routines, and hit them where it hurt most. One guy’s daughter vanished for days—came back broken.
Mind gone. Fadir called it justice. Viktor let it slide because Fadir got results.
But it turned everything sour. Men left, alliances fell apart.
When Viktor died, Fadir thought he’d take over.
We beat him to it. He’s been festering ever since, building a crew that misses the old chaos. ”
Katya listens, her hand spread over my chest. “And now he’s back. For us.”
“For everything.” I pull her closer. “But he’s not going to win. I won’t let him.”
She just nods, and the silence between us is thick with everything we’ve shared—secrets, bodies, futures. We’re tied together now. Nothing’s breaking that.
***
The downtown office feels like a crypt right now. No overhead lights, just my desk lamp fighting back the dark, stretching shadows over the old leather-bound books and the city maps tacked up on the wall.
Rain keeps drumming on the window—steady, impatient, like someone tired of waiting. I’m slumped in this high-backed chair, arms on the desk, eyes fixed on the only photo I keep here: a grainy surveillance shot of Fadir Klem, taken two weeks ago outside that warehouse on Jefferson.
His scar jumps out, even in black-and-white. Mouth twisted up in that half-smile that never fails to chill me.
He’s still out there. Still breathing. Still scheming.
I rub my temples, trying to shove the headache away. Haven’t slept in three days. Four, really, if you count that night holed up at the safehouse, glued to the camera feeds until my vision blurred.
Viktor keeps telling me I’m burning out. Alexey too.
Even Arina pulled me aside yesterday, voice gentle but sharp: “You’re scaring her, Tikhon. She thinks you’re going to disappear and not come back.”
She’s right.
I haven’t slept in our bed—my bed—since the night Katya told me she loved me. I said it back. Meant it, every word.
But I slipped out at dawn, couldn’t stand the thought of her waking up next to a man who might not make it home. A man who could leave her with nothing but a note and a body to bury.
The door swings open—no knock, no warning.
Viktor comes in, rain still clinging to his coat, shadows under his eyes that echo mine. He shuts the door, leans back, arms folded tight.
“You look like hell,” he says.
“Appreciate it.” I don’t lift my eyes from the photo. “What’s new?”
He sighs. “Same as yesterday. Fadir’s gone dark.
No signals, no sightings. His sister Anya turned up in Toronto last week—private jet, fake passport.
Then she flew a commercial flight out. No clue where.
Leonid’s still missing. Dmitri and Sergei are hiding out east—probably the old steel mill by the river.
They’re moving guns, small stuff. Not enough for a war, but enough to make some noise. ”
I nod. “He’s waiting.”
“Yeah. And he’s patient. Always has been.”
I finally look up. “So?”
Viktor shrugs. “So you’re not sleeping. You’re seeing ghosts. You’re letting this eat you alive. And she’s picking up on it.”
I stiffen. “Katya?”
“Who else?” He steps closer, voice dropping. “Listen, boss—I get it. She’s your wife. But that’s just a title. Remember why you married her. The alliance. The truce. Not… whatever you’ve got going now.”
My jaw tightens until I taste blood. “Watch it, Viktor.”
He stands his ground. “Someone has to say it. You’re going soft.
You used to shut down a problem before breakfast and sleep soundly afterward.
Now you’re pacing the halls at three a.m., checking cameras, jumping every time your phone buzzes because you’re scared it’s about her.
You’re distracted. And distraction gets people killed. ”
I stand up—slow, deliberate. The chair scrapes back.
“You’re talking about my wife,” I say.
“I’m talking about your wife on paper.” He doesn’t blink. “The one you forced into this marriage. The one who still sleeps in a different room. The one who could walk out tomorrow if she’s had enough. You’re acting like she’s everything. She’s not. She’s leverage. A symbol. A bridge. That’s it.”
Every word hits like a fist.
I move around the desk. Close the gap, stop just short of him.
“She’s more than that,” I say, quiet and cold. “She’s everything. And if you ever talk about her like she’s nothing again, I’ll put you through the wall. Got it?”
Viktor doesn’t budge. He just stares back.
After a moment, he nods—sharp, once. “Got it, boss.”
He turns and leaves. The door shuts softly behind him.
I just stand there, fists tight and lungs burning, waiting for the room to settle down. He’s wrong. He has to be.
I drop into the chair and rub my face, trying to shove his words somewhere deep, somewhere they can’t reach me. But it’s too late. They’re stuck.
Just your wife. In name only.
I start thinking about Katya—not the Katya locked away in the east wing right now, tucked behind doors and cameras I wired myself. I think about the Katya who smiled at me this morning, all sleepy and real when I brought her coffee.
The Katya who let me hold her last night while she cried about the shop, her face hidden in my neck, trusting me enough to fall apart in my arms. The Katya who whispered “I love you” against my skin, as if it were something fragile she was scared to let out.
She’s not leverage. Not a bridge. She’s the reason I’m still breathing.
I lean forward, open the laptop, pull up the house feed—her hallway, her bedroom door. Empty. Still. Safe.
I close my eyes.
Decompartmentalize. That’s what Viktor calls it. What Dad always said. It used to be easy—shove emotions into a box, lock it, walk away, keep the job away from the man.
But now? I can’t.
Not with her. She’s not in any box.
She’s everywhere—under my skin, in my veins, tangled in every breath. I love her. I’m in love with her. She’s all I think about. I’m terrified of losing her. And the more I try to separate that from hunting Fadir, the more they bleed together until I can’t tell where one stops and the other begins.
I love her.
I would kill for her.
I would die for her.
I’d do anything to keep her safe, to keep her smiling, to keep her baking in that new shop we’re building together.
If that makes me soft? Fine. Then I’m soft.
I open my eyes and stare at Fadir’s photo on the screen.
Soon. Really soon.
I’ll end this.
Then I’ll go home to her. And I won’t leave again.