Chapter Twenty-Two - Leon
One Night Ago
The night Suzy falls asleep in my office, I know something’s off.
She’s quieter than usual, smile stretched just a little too tight at the edges, her posture a hair away from flight.
My instincts scream about the subtle tremor in her hand, the way her eyes flicked to the bottom drawer—none of it escapes me.
I watch her sleeping form for a few more moments, then I carefully start digging. There are systems she doesn’t know exist—layers of surveillance, logs buried deeper than the ones she’s learned to navigate.
I track her movements through time-stamped footage, through silent cameras set at angles meant to capture the invisible. I watch her linger at my desk, watch her open the drawer, see the flash of her phone screen as she scrolls through files she has no business seeing.
I watch her hands shake. I see the exact moment when she crosses the line and doesn’t look back.
I want to rage, to smash something, to storm down the hallway and demand answers she can’t possibly give. Instead, I go cold.
Fury coils in my gut, precise and purposeful, not the wild heat of jealousy but something deeper—a quiet, lethal clarity. I pull up her messages. It takes me less than a minute to trace the photos to their destination. The phone number is familiar. The contact even more so. Her father.
A wave of disgust rolls through me—not just at Suzy’s betrayal, but at the man who made her do it. Marcus White.
I think of all the times I’ve watched that bastard smile at her, the times he’s sent her into danger with a word, expecting her to take the fall, to be grateful for whatever scraps of love he tosses her way. I think of how he raised her to be loyal, but never gave her a reason to be safe.
I don’t explode. I don’t send a message or a threat. I don’t call my men to make an example out of him—not yet.
Instead, I get in my car and drive, headlights cutting through the black, the city a blur outside my window. Every mile sharpens my anger into something cold and perfect. I don’t bring a gun. I don’t need one.
Men like Marcus only understand fear when it looks them in the eyes and doesn’t blink.
The White house is quiet when I arrive, the guards at the gate stepping aside as soon as they see me. They know better than to ask questions.
Marcus’s house is full of polished stone and velvet drapes, a monument to old power and older secrets. I move through it like I own the place—because tonight, I do.
He’s in his study, swirling a glass of whiskey, looking for all the world like a man untouched by consequence. He doesn’t look surprised when I step through the door, but I see the flicker of unease.
He knows me too well. He knows what I’m capable of.
“Leon,” he says, voice smooth, practiced. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I don’t answer. I close the door behind me, cross the room, and grab him by the collar. His glass hits the floor and shatters, whiskey soaking into the rug. He stiffens, tries to twist free, but I hold him fast, my grip unyielding.
“You sent her,” I say, voice low, soft as poison. “You put her in my house, in my life, and then you used her like a pawn.”
He sneers, tries to regain his composure. “She’s my daughter, Leon. She knows what’s expected. It’s family business. You, of all people, should understand—”
I tighten my grip, dragging him closer until our faces are inches apart. “Don’t you dare compare us. I protect what’s mine. You feed yours to the wolves and call it tradition.”
Marcus laughs, brittle and ugly. “She’s not some innocent, Leon. She’s stronger than you think. Suzy has always known what side she was on.”
“She’s stronger because she had to be,” I snap. “Because you taught her that love is something you buy and sell. You made her this way. You broke her and then blamed her for the cracks.”
His eyes flicker—guilt, maybe, or just annoyance that I won’t play his game. He tries to twist the knife.
“If you cared so much, you’d have stopped her from betraying you.”
My anger sharpens. “She betrayed me because you put her in an impossible position. That ends now. She’s not your tool anymore. You don’t send her, you don’t summon her, you don’t threaten her. She’s under my protection now, whether she knows it or not.”
He sneers, but his confidence falters. “Is that a threat, Leon?”
“It’s a promise,” I say, cold and clear. “If you so much as whisper her name for leverage again, you’ll find out what happens when you cross me.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. I see it then—how small he really is.
All the bravado, all the power, nothing but a mask for a coward who uses everyone and loves nothing.
He sputters, tries to gather what’s left of his dignity, but I release him with a shove, watching him stumble back against his desk.
“She’s not yours to use anymore,” I repeat, voice low. “She never was.”
I keep Marcus pressed against the desk, the air between us vibrating with the promise of violence. He tries to muster his old arrogance, jaw set, but I can see his hands tremble. For all his talk of family and tradition, there’s nothing left in him but fear and pride.
I lean in, voice low and final. “You’re finished, Marcus. The deal between us is dead. The next time you try to use her—even with a single message—you’ll answer to me, not the Bratva, not the Whites, not some old alliance. Me.”
He tries to bluster, voice sharp with the old entitlement. “Don’t talk to me about family, Leon. I did what I had to do. That’s what a father does. You think she’d be safe with you, that you’re any better?”
“Better?” My laugh is short and without humor.
“I’m not a good man, but I don’t betray my own and call it love.
Whatever we were building—your alliances, your plans—it ends tonight.
Suzy is not your asset. She’s not a bargaining chip.
If you ever reach for her again, you’ll learn what it costs to lose everything. ”
He looks at me, searching for a loophole, a weakness, some last lever he can pull. I see the moment he realizes it’s over, that I’m not bargaining. I’m giving him a warning he won’t get twice.
“I’ll tell you one last thing, Marcus,” I say, continuing to crowd him. “You lost her the moment you chose power over blood. The only thing you’ve taught her is to survive without you.”
He steadies himself, shoulders squared, eyes glittering. “She’s still my daughter.”
“No,” I reply, cold as the grave. “Not anymore.”
For a heartbeat, the room is thick with everything unsaid—every year of loyalty, of rivalry, of the kind of respect men like us pretend to hold. I turn and walk out, leaving Marcus to his shattered whiskey glass and the hollow echo of his house.
The ride back is long and silent. I grip the wheel until my knuckles ache, headlights painting the deserted roads in trembling lines. I try to force my mind to the usual places: strategy, security, the endless logistics of empire.
All I can see is Suzy—her face in the glow of the fire, the flash of hope in her eyes when she thinks she’s finally free, the tremor in her hands when she thinks I’m not watching.
The frustration simmers, a live wire beneath my skin.
I should be furious—she lied, she crossed me, she brought danger to my doorstep.
Instead, what I feel is closer to grief.
The image of her father using her, discarding her, makes something inside me unravel in a way nothing else ever has.
I can’t shake the memory of her voice, how it sounded small when she spoke about him, the way she tries to be strong even when she’s breaking.
The city is almost peaceful at this hour. I slow as I approach the house, tension pulling me tighter.
What do I do with this new truth? I’ve lived my whole life making quick work of betrayal, cutting out rot before it spreads.
With Suzy, it isn’t so simple. She isn’t just another asset, another liability. She’s the only thing that’s ever made me question what I’m fighting for.
Inside, the Sharov house is dark, lights low except for the lamp in my office window. I let myself in quietly, boots soft on the marble.
For a second, I stand in the hall, breathing in the familiar hush, feeling the shape of the life I’ve built—ordered, disciplined, untouchable.
She’s still there, curled up on the couch where I left her.
The room smells of firewood and the ghost of perfume, papers neatly stacked where I’d gathered them, my jacket tangled around her shoulders.
She sleeps deeply, breath even, one hand curled beneath her cheek, utterly unaware of the war I’ve just fought for her.
I watch her, something tight and new turning in my chest. She looks so small now, so impossibly soft.
It’s a kind of vulnerability I’ve never seen in her before—not the wary bravado, not the sharp-edged wit, but a real, unguarded exhaustion. I wonder what she dreams about. I wonder if she feels safe here, even for a moment.
In that quiet, I realize something’s shifted.
I’m not just angry at her for what she did.
I’m angry for her—for what’s been done to her.
For every time she’s been made to pay for other people’s mistakes.
For the way she’s learned to look over her shoulder, to measure every word, to trust nothing except herself.
I sit in the chair across from her, elbows on my knees, just watching her breathe. There’s no plan here, no strategy to salvage.
She’s changed everything without even knowing it. I want to protect her now—not just from my enemies, but from the people who claim to love her, who would use her as a weapon and leave her to pick up the pieces. It’s terrifying, the depth of it.
The hours slide by, the office clock ticking in the corner. I should wake her, should tell her what I’ve done, should demand her loyalty again and make her promise never to betray me.
I let her sleep. She’s earned it. For once, I want her to have a night free of fear, free of the weight her father keeps pressing into her bones.
I wait there, watching, unwilling to let her wake alone in the dark. I think about reaching out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, offering some word of comfort I don’t have. Instead, I keep my distance, heart pounding with something dangerously close to hope.
By morning, everything between us has changed. I’m not sure she’ll ever know what I did for her, or why. I only know that whatever line there was—between duty and desire, between love and loyalty—has vanished. And I’m terrified of how far I might go to keep her safe, even from herself.
I don’t sleep that night. I sit in the half-light of my office, watching Suzy breathe, tracing the lines of her face with my eyes—trying to memorize her peace before reality returns. My anger has nowhere to go; it circles and tightens, transformed into something deeper and more dangerous.
For so long, I’ve told myself love is weakness, that anything you care for is a weapon waiting to be used against you. Yet here I am, guarding her sleep like it means more than all the power I’ve fought for.
When she finally stirs, I don’t say a word. I just watch as she blinks awake, confusion softening her features before memory returns.
I wonder if she can feel it, the shift in the air, the fact that something essential has changed between us. She pulls my jacket tighter around her shoulders, glancing at me for a moment before looking away.
In the quiet, I realize that everything I’ve built could burn and I’d still choose her, again and again. I want to promise her safety, trust… maybe even forgiveness.
The words die in my throat, and I let the silence hold instead, not daring to break the fragile peace she’s found tonight.