Chapter 7 #2
My legs give out, and I sink onto my bed, staring at my reflection in the mirror across the room.
The woman looking back at me is pale, shocked, wearing a diamond collar that suddenly feels like a noose.
"Selene? Are you there? Selene!"
I scramble for the phone, hands shaking. "I'm here. Sorry, I... dropped the phone."
"Are you okay? You sound—"
"I'm fine. Can you send me everything you found? All of it? Every file, every report?"
"Of course, but Selene, if your client is really dealing with this level of organized crime, you need to get them federal protection immediately. These people don't just threaten—they follow through."
"Just send it. Please. Everything."
I hang up before she can say anything else, before she can hear the panic in my voice.
Cassius is waiting for me in Hell, sitting in his chair like a king on his throne.
The moment he sees me, his expression shifts from business to something softer, warmer.
Even after everything we've shared, that transformation still makes my heart skip.
"Come here, little wolf."
I cross to him on unsteady legs, still shaken by my conversation with Michelle.
When I'm close enough, he pulls me onto his lap, hands immediately going to my face, reading my expression with the skill of someone who knows me intimately. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing serious. Just...information overload." I settle against him, drawing strength from his solid presence. "Michelle gave me a lot to process about Zhukhov."
His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, gentle and soothing. "Tell me what you found."
"He's dangerous. More dangerous than I realized, but in a different way than I expected." I turn to face him more fully, getting lost for a moment in those gray eyes. "Michelle thinks some of the crimes attributed to him might actually be cover-ups by local crime families."
Something flickers in his expression, gone so fast I almost miss it. "Michelle?"
"My contact at the DA's office. Assistant District Attorney Michelle Dravens. We worked together during my internship—she's brilliant, thorough." I shift in his lap, trying to organize my thoughts. "She thinks the Russians are being blamed for hits they didn't commit."
"Interesting theory." His voice is carefully neutral, the tone he uses when he's thinking strategically. "Did she have any proof?"
"She's sending me files. But Cassius..." I grab his shoulders, excitement building as the implications hit me. "If someone's been using Russian methods to cover their own crimes, couldn't we use that? Frame Zhukhov for something he didn't do, get law enforcement to take him down for us?"
"You want to manipulate the system." There's approval in his voice, pride that makes me excited. "Use their own corruption against them."
"Exactly. Why fight a war when we can have someone else fight it for us? We feed the FBI evidence linking Zhukhov to crimes he didn't commit, let them destroy him while we stay clean."
He kisses me then, deep and possessive, tasting of whiskey and power.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire and something deeper. "You magnificent, ruthless creature."
"I learned from the best."
What happens next isn't like our usual encounters.
There's no power play, no dominance games, no commands or punishments.
Instead, he undresses me slowly, reverently, hands worshipping every inch of skin like I'm something precious.
His touch is soft, patient, building heat slowly instead of taking what he wants.
He maps my body with his mouth, finds every spot that makes me gasp and moan, brings me to the edge over and over with gentle persistence.
"I love you," I whisper against his lips when he finally moves inside me. The words spill out before I can stop them, raw and honest and terrifying.
He goes completely still.
For a moment, I think I've made a mistake, revealed too much too soon.
Then his forehead drops against mine, and his voice comes out rough with emotion.
"You're everything to me," he breathes. "Everything."
He makes love to me—that's the only word for it.
Not fucking, not claiming, but something deeper, more intimate.
Every touch, every kiss, every whispered endearment feels like a promise.
Like he's trying to give me something precious, something I'll need to hold onto.
When it's over, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare skin.
I feel complete, cherished, utterly safe in his arms.
"Stay with me here tonight," he murmurs into my hair, arms tightening around me.
"Always."
His embrace grows almost fierce, holding me like he's afraid I might disappear.
I toss and turn, struggling to get to sleep, but ultimately, I can’t.
It's past midnight when I give up, slip carefully out of Cassius' arms, and gather my clothes.
He barely stirs when I leave—exhausted from our evening together and the stress of the Russian situation.
I leave a note on his pillow.
Couldn’t sleep. Gone to my apartment to review Michelle’s files. See you tomorrow.
By the time the elevator reaches the garage, two of Cassius’s men are already waiting beside the car. No questions. Just a quiet nod as one of them opens the door.
Cassius may sleep like the king of this city, but his security never does.
Michelle’s email is waiting when I open my laptop in my apartment.
Dozens of attachments—case files, investigation reports, surveillance photos, court transcripts.
I pour myself a glass of wine and settle in for a long night of reading.
The pattern becomes clear within the first hour.
Over the past ten years, seven judges have been murdered.
All were known for being incorruptible, refusing bribes, pushing hard sentences for organized crime.
All were initially attributed to Russian Bratva expansion into new territories, but the details don't add up.
The Bratva likes to make statements—public executions, bodies left where they'll send a message, families terrorized as warnings to others.
These murders were clean, professional, designed to look like different organizations each time.
Too sophisticated for the usual Russian approach.
My wine sits forgotten as I cross-reference the dates with my father's case files, the ones I've kept in my bedroom closet all these years.
Dad was investigating something big in the weeks before his death.
His notes mention "local crime family," "extensive money laundering operation," "RICO could bring down entire organization."
One name appears over and over in his meticulous handwriting: Wolfe.
My hands start shaking as I open another document.
This one is a newspaper article from eight years ago, dated just three months after my parents' death: "Young Crime Boss Takes Control: Cassius Wolfe Assumes Leadership of Family Organization After Father's Retirement."
The photo is grainy black and white, but the figure is unmistakable.
Tall, dark-haired, sharp features that I know intimately.
He looks younger, harder around the edges, but it's definitely him.
Cassius Wolfe. Twenty-seven years old when he took over his father's criminal empire.
Twenty-seven years old when my parents were murdered.
I pull up another file—the official police report from my parents' case.
The timeline shows they died on March 15th at approximately 11:45 p.m.
The newspaper article is dated June 3rd, with a quote that makes my blood freeze: "Sources within law enforcement say the younger Wolfe eliminated several potential threats to the organization's operations before assuming control, including city officials who refused to cooperate with the family's business interests. "
No. No, no, no.
With trembling hands, I spread my father's files across my coffee table.
His handwriting, neat and precise, documenting every piece of evidence he'd gathered against the Wolfe criminal organization.
Bank records, witness statements, surveillance photos, phone records.
One photo makes me gasp aloud.
It's grainy, taken from a distance with a long lens, but it shows a figure in a black leather mask entering what I recognize as our old house's back door.
The height is right. The build is right. The timestamp shows March 15th, 11:49 PM.
Four minutes after the estimated time of death.
The night my parents died.
I stare at that photo until the lines blur.
My face goes numb first, then cold, like all the blood is draining out of me at once.
My hand flies to my mouth—a reflex, something involuntary and animalistic, the body’s attempt to hold a sound that hasn’t yet formed.
The wine glass slips from my hand.
I don’t feel it leave my fingers. I only hear it as it shatters on the hardwood floor.
The sound echoes in my quiet apartment like a gunshot, like the gunshots that killed my parents.
My phone buzzes with a text from Cassius:
Missing you already, little wolf. Sweet dreams.
Little wolf. His pet name for me. Because his last name is Wolfe.
Because he killed the people who loved me most and made me fall in love with him for it.
My stomach heaves violently.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm sick, retching until there's nothing left but bile and the taste of absolute betrayal.
When I finally stop shaking, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
The diamond collar glints at my throat, beautiful and damning.
I've worn it for over a year, never taking it off once, a symbol of my devotion to my parents' murderer.
The woman staring back at me looks hollow-eyed, haunted.
She looks exactly like she did eight years ago, kneeling in her parents' blood, begging them not to leave her in the dark.
I close my eyes and see him as he was tonight—tender, loving, whispering that I'm everything to him.
It can't be true. There has to be another explanation.
But deep down, in the part of me that's always known something was off about this perfect love story, I know it is.
Cassius Wolfe killed my parents, and I just told him I love him.