Chapter Thirty-Three
Aleksei
The screen flickers as Vasya demonstrates the new monitoring system.
Three distinct camera angles show Stella’s suite, each view crisp and detailed. The biomarker data streams alongside, tracking her vitals in real-time.
“ Khorosho .” I lean back in my leather chair. “The blind spots?”
“None.” Vasya’s rough-hewn features shift on the monitor as he manipulates the controls remotely. “Thermal imaging covers the bathroom. Motion sensors on all entry points. The AI flags any deviation from approved patterns.”
The satisfaction of complete control settles over me. Every breath, every movement, every fluctuation in her body — all of it feeds into my systems. The thought of her carrying my child, safe within my walls, eases something deep in my chest.
My phone vibrates. Sasha’s update about the weapons shipment demands immediate attention. The familiar rhythm of business pulls me back to more pressing matters.
“Keep monitoring the integration.” I dismiss Vasya with a nod. “I want hourly reports in case anything changes.”
The monitor flits to a new image as I shut down our conversation and I pull up Sasha’s message. Three crates missing from the latest shipment. The timing couldn’t be worse, with the wedding disaster drawing all eyes to my business.
I tap my fingers against the desk, mind already calculating possible weak points in our supply chain.
An email notification pings, and suddenly, the government contract from James Whitmore fills my screen.
My eyes scan the specifications for the Cyclone R9 order — five thousand units, specialized modifications, expedited delivery timeline.
The potential profit margins make Sofia’s pathetic demands look like pocket change.
I pull up the technical blueprints, studying the requested modifications. They want enhanced targeting systems, specialized ammunition compatibility. The R9’s base design already dominates the market, but these changes would push it into new territory.
My hand reaches for the glass of vodka as I examine the firing rate requirements. The numbers don’t add up. This level of performance would require significant retooling of our production facilities.
“ Blyad .” I mutter, spotting a critical flaw in their specs. The enhanced barrel would overheat at these speeds, potentially catastrophic during sustained fire.
I tap my secure line to our engineering department. “Viktor. The R9 modifications — run simulation checks. Focus on heat dispersion under maximum load.”
The familiar satisfaction of identifying technical problems settles over me. This is what I excel at — seeing the patterns, catching the details others miss. It’s why the government keeps coming back despite knowing exactly who they’re dealing with.
My eyes drift to the proposed timeline. Six months for full delivery. Tight, but manageable if we shift resources from other projects. The profit potential justifies the strain on our facilities.
I scan through the profit projections one more time. The numbers don’t lie — this contract would be lucrative. Yet something nags at me, an echo of my mother’s voice about blood money.
My thumb traces the edge of the weapons blueprint. Each modification represents another level of lethality. More efficient killing. More collateral damage. More orphans.
“ Chert voz’mi .” I drain my glass, the vodka burning away sentiment. This isn’t about morality. It’s about power, about securing my position. About protecting what’s mine.
The image of Bobik flashes through my mind. His medical treatments, his special care, the renovations to keep him safe — none of it comes cheap. And now with Stella and the baby…
I pull up our current revenue streams. The legitimate businesses provide decent cover, but the real money comes from arms. Always has. My father understood that much, even if he was a drunken mudak who couldn’t handle the pressure.
The modified R9 specs stare back at me. Five thousand units. Each one capable of tearing through body armor like tissue paper. Each one finding its way to some battlefield, some urban conflict, some government target.
The Bratva may be ruthless, but we don’t come anywhere close to state-sanctioned mass murder.
I press my palms against my eyes until spots dance behind my lids. Sentiment is weakness. The Bratva taught me that lesson early. You either control the weapons trade, or someone else does.
My decision crystallizes. I reach for my phone to call Viktor back. The engineering modifications will proceed. We’ll meet their timeline, exceed their specifications. Build better weapons than they even knew they needed.
The familiar coldness settles over me as I outline the production schedule. This is business. Just business. And I excel at business.
I sign the digital contract with a few practiced swipes, satisfaction coursing through me as the confirmation appears. Seventy-five million. The kind of deal that cements power, ensures stability.
My watch vibrates, the biomarker alert cutting through my moment of triumph. Stella’s heart rate has spiked well above normal parameters. The weapons contract forgotten, I pull up her vitals on my monitor.
Blood pressure elevated. Cortisol levels climbing. Her location marker shows her near the hidden entrance to Bobik’s wing.
“ Der’mo .” I switch to the security feed, quickly picking her up in the medical bay. She’s found the concealed doorway. She examines the panel, curiosity evident in every movement.
My jaw clenches. I’d made the rules crystal clear — she was to stay in her room. Yet here she is, testing boundaries already.
The camera catches her expression — that familiar mix of determination and defiance that first drew me to her. But this isn’t about attraction. This is about protecting Bobik.
I tap my secure line. “Sasha. The Left Wing. Now.”
Her vitals continue climbing as she examines the door mechanism. The sight of her investigating my secrets sends a surge of possessive anger through me. My son’s quarters lie beyond that doorway. Not to mention that she’s carrying my child. She should be resting, following the plan.
Instead, she’s poking around where she doesn’t belong.
Neposlushnaya suka!
I resist the urge to rise from my desk, my fingers drumming against the surface as I watch her. Any other person investigating my secrets would already be bleeding in the basement. The thought of punishing her sends an unexpected twist through my gut.
Blyad .
Since when do I hesitate? Isolation, deprivation, punishment, consequences. The Bratva playbook is clear on handling disobedience.
She has your baby in her belly, mudak!
I lean back, forcing myself to think strategically. Harsh punishment could cause stress, endangering the pregnancy. Physical discipline is out of the question. Emotional manipulation risks pushing her toward desperate measures.
But I can’t have her snooping around Bobik.
I watch her fingers trace the panel’s edge, fighting my instinct to storm down there immediately. Something about her determined expression holds me back. The way her brow furrows in concentration, those green eyes sharp with intelligence — it reminds me of Bobik analyzing a new puzzle.
“ Chert .” I mutter, recognizing the unfamiliar sensation in my chest. This hesitation to punish her isn’t just about protecting the pregnancy.
Bullshit.
Of course it is.
The security feed shows her pressing gently against different sections, testing for weak points. Smart. Methodical. If she wasn’t investigating my most closely guarded secret, I might actually admire her approach.
Suddenly, she freezes. Sasha’s heavy footsteps echo through the corridor feed. Stella’s head snaps up, her vitals spiking higher. She moves quickly, smoothly away from the door, her retreat well-executed despite her obvious tension.
I lean forward, studying her face as she passes the camera. No guilt, just calculation. She’s already planning her next attempt.
“ Der’mo .” I pull up the monitoring protocols, adding extra motion sensors around the medical bay.
Neposlushnaya lisa .
My clever little fox, testing the boundaries of her cage. It should anger me, but instead, there’s something about it that feels like a game. An interesting one. There might be more to this little arrangement than I’d anticipated.
For some reason, I like it.