Chapter Nine
Aleksei
Papers scatter across my desk, but I can’t focus on a single word.
That woman from the charity event keeps invading my thoughts. The curve of her neck. Those tear-stained eyes. The way she yielded to my touch in that hotel room.
“ Blyad .” I push back from my desk, running a hand over the bristles on my chin.
My phone buzzes again — the fifteenth message from Sofia since morning.
The preview shows another passive-aggressive reminder about dinner with her parents.
I swipe it away, but her diamond-encrusted profile photo remains on screen.
The perfect Russian bride my sister selected. Beautiful, connected, appropriate.
Unlike the woman from the hotel, who burned like fire in my hands.
I grab my tumbler of vodka, downing it in one harsh swallow. The liquid does nothing to erase the memory of her taste, the sound of her pleasure, the way she-
My phone lights up again. Sofia.
Chert voz’mi!
The screen shows our chat history — dozens of ignored messages about wedding venues and guest lists. Each one a reminder of my obligations. The Bratva expects their Pakhan to make a suitable match. To produce legitimate heirs.
But all I can think about is sable hair spread across white hotel sheets.
“Focus, mudak ,” I mutter, forcing my attention back to the weapons shipment manifests that need my review. The numbers blur together, meaningless against the ghost of soft skin under my fingers.
Another message from Sofia flashes. This time with a photo attached — her trying on wedding dresses.
I drop the phone face-down, my jaw clenching. One night of weakness shouldn’t haunt me like this. I’ve had my share of women, forgotten them all by morning. But something about this one-
Blyad!
I don’t have time for more woman trouble. I have enough on my plate with this stupid Novikova bitch.
Yet another ping sounds. Reluctantly, I scroll through Sofia’s messages, each one more demanding than the last:
“Why aren’t you responding?”
“My father asked about the venue again.”
“Are you deliberately ignoring me?”
“This is completely unacceptable behavior.”
My thumb swipes over the delete button. This arranged marriage was Diana’s idea — her attempt to secure the Bratva’s future through a proper Russian alliance. Sofia ticks all the right boxes.
And she’s about as warm as a Siberian winter.
Another message pops up: “I’ve selected the chapel. You WILL make time to view it this weekend.”
I toss the phone aside. The presumption in her tone sets my teeth on edge. Even before we’re married, she acts like she owns my schedule, my choices, my-
The office door slams open. I’m on my feet instantly, hand reaching for the gun under my desk.
Sofia stands in my doorway, her grey eyes blazing with barely contained fury. The diamonds at her throat catch the light as she stalks toward my desk.
“Where were you yesterday night?” Her voice carries that familiar edge of possession. “I called six times.”
I sink back in my chair, maintaining the distance between us. “Working.”
“At midnight?” She perches on the edge of my desk, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the wood. “The charity event ended at ten.”
“I had business to handle.” I keep my tone flat, emotionless. The less I give her, the sooner this interrogation will end.
“Business.” She practically spits the word. “Was this ‘business’ wearing a dress?”
Vivid memories flash through my mind. I push them away, focusing on the cold reality of Sofia’s presence.
“Sofia, you’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” She leans closer, her expensive perfume threatening to suffocate me. “Because Vadim saw you at Petroushka. With a woman.”
My father’s face suddenly fills my mind — hovering over my mother with that same possessive rage, demanding to know her every movement. The parallel makes my stomach turn.
“Enough.” I stand, towering over her. “I don’t answer to you.”
“You’re my fiancé—”
“On paper.” The words come out like ice. “Don’t confuse arrangement with ownership.”
Her perfectly painted lips tremble. “Diana promised—”
“Diana doesn’t control me either.” I move toward the window, needing space to breathe. “Go home, Sofia. I have work to do.”
She doesn’t move, her reflection in the glass showing her internal struggle between pride and persistence. Her jawline is set in a surly line, and I remember my mother, trapped in endless cycles of questioning and demands, trying to appease an unappeasable partner.
“This isn’t over,” she finally says. She doesn’t speak further, and I assume she’s gone, but I don’t turn around to check. The silence feels like a blessing, but her lingering perfume reminds me that I’m never truly free.
The undernote of vanilla fills my nose. Just like my mother’s. And suddenly, I’m ten again, standing in our St. Petersburg apartment’s doorway as she braids Diana’s hair. Her fingers move swiftly, lovingly, while humming that lullaby she always sang.
That was the last morning I saw her.
Later that day, I came home from school to find her vanished. No note. No goodbye. Just Father sitting in his armchair, reeking of vodka, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Where’s Mama?” Diana had asked.
His silence filled the room like poison gas. Those dead eyes fixed on us, daring us to ask again. The unspoken threat clear: Don’t question, don’t search, don’t speak her name.
For weeks after, I’d wake to Diana crying in the next room. But we never mentioned our mother again. Not when Father stumbled home drunk. Not when his new women paraded through our home. Not even when-
“Are you even listening to me?” Sofia’s sharp voice cuts through the memory.
Blyad!
She’s still here, ranting about my obligations and her expectations.
I turn from the window, ice flooding my veins. The same possessive rage that lived in my father’s eyes now burns in hers. The need to control, to own, to break.
“Get out.” My voice comes out low, dangerous.
Sofia’s mouth drops open. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me.” Each word falls like a hammer blow. “Out. Now.”
She takes a step back, finally recognizing the threat in my tone. Good. Let her feel what real fear is. Let her understand exactly who she’s trying to cage.
“This isn’t over, Aleksei.” Her voice trembles despite her attempt at authority. “We have an arrangement—”
“Which can be broken.” I move toward her, watching her retreat. “Remember that.”
Sofia stands frozen, her perfect mask cracking. Good. Time to shatter her delusions completely.
“Let me be clear.” I regard her coldly. “This arrangement exists for one reason — to satisfy the old guard’s outdated expectations. Nothing more.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “But Diana said—”
“I told you. My sister doesn’t speak for me.” The words come out sharp enough to make her flinch. “She arranged this marriage thinking it would benefit the Bratva. But I run the Bratva, not her.”
“The other families expect—”
“The other families answer to me.” I straighten to my full height. “Or have you forgotten who holds power here?”
Color drains from Sofia’s face. For all her pretense at being the perfect mob wife, she’s never truly understood our world. The violence that built it. The blood that maintains it.
“This isn’t about the families.” Her voice wavers. “Diana promised we would—”
“Diana promised what she had no right to promise.” The mention of my sister’s meddling sets my teeth on edge. Always trying to fix me, to force me into her idea of normalcy. “My personal life isn’t a chess piece for her to move.”
Sofia’s hands shake as she grips her designer purse. “You can’t just—”
“I can do whatever I want.” Power flows through my words, the tone that makes hardened criminals step back. “That’s what being Pakhan means. Something you and my sister seem to have forgotten.”
Sofia tosses her head, looking mad enough to spit bullets.
But she knows better than to push me further.
She spins on her heel and marches across the room as she storms out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
The sound echoes through my office like the aftermath of one of Diana’s lectures about “proper relationships” and “family obligations.”
My sister means well. She always has. After our mother vanished, Diana stepped into that void, trying to protect me the only way she knew how — by creating structure, routine, expectations.
The same way she arranges her designer suits by color and season, she tries to arrange my life into neat, predictable patterns.
I drop back into my chair, rubbing my temples. Diana doesn’t understand that her careful plans, her calculated arrangements, feel like chains around my throat. The same suffocating grip our father used to maintain control.
My phone buzzes with Diana’s familiar ringtone. Of course. Sofia’s already run crying to her about my “unacceptable behavior.”
I let it ring. My sister’s disappointment is a weight I’ve carried since childhood — her sad eyes watching me train with knives instead of studying, her tight smile when I took over the Bratva instead of pursuing the legitimate business career she’d mapped out.
“You’re better than this life,” she told me once, straightening my tie before a meeting with the other families. “You could be so much more.”
But she never understood that this life — the power, the control, the freedom to break anyone who threatens what’s mine — is exactly what I need to ensure no one ever disappears from my life again. No more unanswered questions. No more silent dinners with empty chairs.
The phone buzzes again. Diana’s face lights up my screen — a candid shot from her last birthday, caught mid-laugh with a glass of champagne. My twin. My protector. My conscience.
And sometimes, my jailer.
The memory rises unbidden — Father sprawled in his favorite armchair, reeking of cheap liquor. The same chair where he sat the day Mama vanished. But this time, I’m not a helpless child. I’m Pakhan .
“I want you out of here.” My voice carries the weight of every bruise, every broken bone, every silent dinner spent avoiding his rage.
He tries to laugh it off, but fear flickers in those bloodshot eyes. “You can’t—”
“I already have.” I toss the papers onto his lap — bank accounts emptied, properties seized, his precious reputation in tatters. “You have one hour before my men arrive.”
His hands shake as he reads, decades of careful tyranny crumbling. “I’m your father—”
“No.” The word cuts through years of pain. “You’re nothing.”
The satisfaction of watching him stumble out, suitcase clutched to his chest like a shield, still burns sweet in my memory. That moment when power finally balanced the scales.
A sharp sound pulls me back. Sofia is back in my doorway, her perfect mask cracking to reveal something uglier beneath.
Jesus Christ!
“I spoke to your sister. I won’t be dismissed like some common—”
“And yet.” I rise from my chair, done playing games. “Here you are, still talking when you should be gone.”
Her fingers clench around her purse strap — the same possessive grip my father used on his bottle. The same need to control, to own, to break.
Sofia’s mouth opens for another tirade, but I cut her off with a raised hand. “We’re done here.”
My mind drifts to the woman last night — to soft gasps, genuine pleasure, the way she moved against me without calculation or agenda. No power plays. No family expectations. Just pure, honest desire.
Sofia’s expensive perfume feels cloying, artificial. Everything about her is carefully constructed — from her designer clothes to her practiced smile. The perfect Bratva wife, groomed since birth for her role.
Unlike the woman from the hotel, who tasted like champagne and freedom.
“Are you even listening?” Sofia’s shrill voice grates against my nerves.
“No.” I turn to my desk, dismissing her. “I have actual work to do.”
“The other families expect—”
“Leave through the door, or you can go through the window.” I snap. Her eyes widen. Something in my stance tells her I’m not joking.
The slam of the door signals Sofia’s final exit.
Thank fuck.
Blessed silence fills my office, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning.
I lean back in my leather chair, loosening my tie, then grab the stack of papers from my desk. Numbers and codes blur together — Pakistani arms dealers, shipping routes, security protocols. The Bratva doesn’t run itself.
And I don’t have time for Sofia and her theatrics.
Or memories of deep green eyes, silken hair, or skin like satin.
I have bigger things to worry about.