Chapter 42
The wine in the crystal glass was a deep, violently dark red. I swirled it slowly, watching the liquid climb the sides of the vessel, defying gravity for a fleeting second before succumbing to the inevitable pull of the earth.
Physics. Predictable. Reliable.
I sat on the velvet throne in the center of the main chamber at Headquarters. The room was shrouded in darkness, save for the single spotlight that illuminated my chair—a theatrical choice, perhaps, but one that served a distinct psychological purpose.
I brought the glass to my lips, inhaling the bouquet. Oak. Blackberries. Soil.
A smirk played on my lips, a cold, humorless expression that no one was around to witness.
My mind, traitorous as it had been lately, drifted back to the sensory input of the last few days. Specifically, the texture of Aleesha's mouth.
I have been kissing her. Frequently. Excessively.
I kissed her while she coded. I kissed her while she crocheted that hideous red flower. I nearly kissed her in a public mall next to a pretzel stand.
A lesser man might call this obsession. A romantic might call it affection.
I call it... maintenance.
I took a sip of the wine. It coated my tongue, but it lacked the sweetness of strawberries and whipped cream.
I am not obsessed with her lips. That is absurd. I am a man of discipline. I am a logistician of human behavior.
The truth—the calculated, objective truth—is that I am simply touch-deprived.
It has been fourteen years.
Fourteen years since I allowed my mouth to explore another.
Fourteen years since Natalia. In that time, I have engaged in physical acts, yes.
I am a healthy, virile male. I have utilized escorts for the necessary biological release.
But those transactions were cold. Clinical.
Friction and release. Never a kiss. Never an embrace that lasted longer than the payment processing.
And now, I have been married for two months, and I have not yet consummated the union.
So, naturally, when I kiss Aleesha, it is merely my body correcting a deficit. It is a physiological response to proximity. She is there. She is soft. She is willing. It is efficient to utilize her for stress relief.
It is certainly not love.
I scoffed into the empty room, the sound echoing off the high, concrete walls.
Love.
The word tasted like vinegar.
Love is a chemical defect found in civilians. It is a neurological malfunction that prioritizes the well-being of another organism over one's own survival. It is a distraction. In my world, distraction is a vector for error. Error leads to weakness. Weakness leads to downfall.
And downfall is synonymous with death.
I do not love Aleesha. I own her.
There is a distinct difference. Ownership implies control. It implies responsibility for the asset's condition. I ensure she is fed, clothed in her ridiculous pink garments, and protected from external threats. That is the duty of the owner.
Love implies vulnerability. And I am bulletproof.
My mind flickered briefly to the variable I had recently liquidated.
Elijah Martinez.
The boy was currently residing in a state-run psychiatric facility, heavily sedated, likely drooling onto a pillow while nightmares of his parents' execution played on a loop in his shattered mind.
He is facing a slow, agonizing death of the soul.
Why? Because he spoke to my wife. Because he touched his thigh to hers. Because he encroached on property that bore the Muratori seal.
It was not a crime of passion. It was a crime of territory. He trespassed. I enforced the boundary. It was simple logistics.
"I think I want a divorce."
Aleesha's voice echoed in my memory, high-pitched and tearful.
I swirled the wine harder.
Divorce. As if.
The audacity of the creature. She signs a contract she didn't read, eats my fries, spends my money on glitter, and then thinks she can dissolve the merger because of a ghost from my past?
She is an idiot. A naive, emotional, impulsive idiot.
"I would never leave you even in the darkest days!"
Her other statement followed, contradictory and absurdly absolute. She sings it in the car. She promises eternity while biting my cheek.
She doesn't know what "darkest days" means. She thinks a dark day is when the Wi-Fi is down or the ice cream machine is broken. She has no concept of the darkness I inhabit.
But... she is my idiot. And she will remain so.
Knock. Knock.
The heavy double doors creaked open.
I didn't turn my head. I stared straight ahead into the shadows.
Luca, my Consigliere, stepped into the light. He looked weary. His suit was impeccable, but there were bags under his eyes.
"Don Gabriel," he said, bowing his head slightly.
"Report," I commanded, setting the wine glass down on the small side table.
"It is the Mosorov clan," Luca began, his voice grave. "Our intelligence in St. Petersburg indicates movement. They are encroaching on the northern shipping routes again. There are whispers of a new alliance with the cartels in Mexico."
I listened, my face impassive.
The Mosorovs.
Our rivalry with the Russian syndicate dated back to the 18th century. It was an ancestral feud, passed down like a genetic disease. My grandfather fought their grandfather. My father fought their father. And now, supposedly, I was to fight their current Pakhan.
"They are posturing," Luca continued, pulling up a holographic map on his tablet. "We believe they are planning a strike on the Antwerp port within the month. If we do not reinforce—"
I yawned.
I couldn't help it. I stretched my arms out, the fabric of my suit jacket pulling tight across my shoulders. I cracked my neck. Pop.
Luca stopped mid-sentence. He stared at me, dumbfounded.
"Don Gabriel?"
"It is boring, Luca," I said, waving a hand dismissively. "The Mosorovs have been 'planning a strike' since the Cold War. They are old men fighting ghosts. They lack the infrastructure for a multi-front war."
"But—"
"Do not bother me with such trivialities," I stood up from the throne. "If they cross the line, kill them. Send the reaper squads. Burn their ports. But do not interrupt my afternoon with hypothetical threats."
I walked down the steps of the dais.
"I have more important matters to attend to," I lied.
I left Luca standing there, mouth slightly open, clutching his tablet. He looked terrified and confused. Good. Confusion keeps them sharp.
I walked out of the Throne Room.
My footsteps echoed in the long, brutalist corridors of the headquarters. I nodded to the guards, who snapped to attention.
I reached my private chamber—a stark, minimalist office/bedroom combo I kept at the HQ for nights when work ran late.
I entered and closed the door.
The room was silent.
I walked to the desk and sat down in the ergonomic leather chair.
I waited.
I didn't open a file. I didn't check the stock market. I didn't review the hit list.
I just... waited.
I stared at the wall.
One minute passed. Five minutes.
My brow furrowed.
I looked at the analog clock on the wall.
Usually, by now, my phone would have vibrated at least six times.
Ding. "Look at this cat video!" Ding. "Stephie is crying again huhu." Ding. "Can we get pizza later?" Ding. "I miss your face!"
Aleesha's communication style was a relentless barrage of nonsense. It was constant noise.
But today... silence.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
I unlocked it.
I refreshed the feed. Nothing.
I checked the signal strength. Full bars.
I scowled at the device.
She didn't update me? She didn't send a picture of her lunch? She didn't complain about the cucumber water?
Is she... busy?
What could she possibly be doing at the school that is so engrossing she forgets to harass her husband?
Is she still crying with Stephanie? Is she talking to a stranger? Is there a male masseuse?
My jaw tightened.
This silence is unacceptable. It is inefficient. As her husband and owner, I require status updates to ensure the Asset is secure.
I sighed. A sharp, annoyed sound.
I opened the messaging app.
I tapped on her contact. (I had renamed it from "The Asset" to "Aleesha" last week. A clerical error, surely).
I typed.
Where are you?
Too aggressive.
Update status.
Too robotic.
Are you okay?
Absolutely not. That sounds like Eli. That sounds like a civilian who cares.
I deleted the draft. I stared at the blinking cursor. I need her to text me. Not because I am worried. Not because I miss the chaotic ding of her notifications.
But because she needs it.
Yes. That is the logic. Aleesha is needy. She requires constant validation. If I do not text her, she will feel neglected. She will think I am angry. She will spiral.
I am doing this for her psychological stability.
I typed again.
I hit send.
I set the phone down on the desk and stared at it, willing the screen to light up.
Ten minutes passed.
Six hundred seconds.
In that time, I could have destabilized a small government. I could have authorized a dozen shipments. I could have ended the Mosorov bloodline. But instead, I sat in my office, glaring at a piece of glass, waiting for a bubbly, chaotic girl to acknowledge my existence.
BZZZT.
Finally.
My hand snatched the device before the vibration had even ceased.
I unlocked it.
It was an image attachment first.
I opened it. It was a photo of her laptop screen, resting on what looked like a spa towel. She was coding. Or attempting to. But the interface...
I scowled.
Her Integrated Development Environment (IDE) was customized. The background was not the standard, soothing dark mode. It was bubblegum pink. The syntax highlighting—the text of the code itself—was a mix of neon magenta and glittery cyan. The cursor was a tiny heart.
Pathetic, I thought, sneering at the screen. How does she not have a seizure looking at this? It is an assault on the visual cortex.
Then, the text bubble underneath.
My brows furrowed so hard they nearly touched.
Get someone's phone?
Why does she need to acquire a device? Is she attempting to spy on me? Unlikely; she has zero subtlety. Is she planning a theft? She is a girl who apologizes to furniture when she bumps into it. She is not a thief.
I typed back immediately, my thumbs moving with lethal speed.
Three dots appeared. Dancing. Then stopped. Then danced again.
Ding.
A single message bubble appeared.
It was a GIF. An animated image of a cartoon cat putting a finger to its lips and winking.
I stared at the winking cat.
Secret?
She is keeping secrets from me? Her husband? Her owner?
I felt a surge of irrational irritation. I need to know. I need to know everything.
I typed a command.
Sent.
I watched the screen.
She read it.
I waited for the typing bubbles.
Nothing.
I waited ten seconds. Twenty.
Still nothing.
She left me on read.
She sent me a winking cat, declared a secret, and then ghosted the leader of the Muratori family.
I gripped the phone so tightly the casing creaked.
She is ignoring me.
I stood up, shoving the phone into my pocket.
"Fine," I growled to the empty room.
If she wants to keep secrets, I will uncover them. And if she thinks she can steal a phone without my help, she is going to get caught in five seconds.
I marched toward the door. The Mosorovs could wait.
My wife was plotting something stupid, and I needed to intervene before she accidentally arrested herself.