Chapter 17 - Rodion
I woke to the unfamiliar sensation of warmth pressed against my side.
For a moment, I didn't move, didn't open my eyes. Just lay there cataloging the details—the soft weight of her head on my shoulder, the rhythm of her breathing, the way her hand rested on my chest like it belonged there.
I wasn't used to this. Waking up with someone.
Usually by now I'd have extracted myself, made polite excuses, moved on to the next thing.
The women I'd been with understood the arrangement.
No one stayed until morning, and if they did, I was already mentally out the door before they opened their eyes.
This was different.
I opened my eyes and looked down at her. Sleep had softened her face, erased the wariness that usually lived in her expression. Her hair was spread across my pillow in dark waves, and her lips were slightly parted, still swollen from last night.
Last night.
The memory of it hit me like a wave—her gasps, her moans, the way she'd said my name when she came apart in my arms. The trust it had taken for her to let go like that. The way it had felt to be inside her, to have her look at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I'd been with a lot of women. But I'd never felt anything like that.
She stirred, her eyelashes fluttering, and then she was looking up at me with those whiskey-colored eyes, still hazy with sleep.
"Morning," she murmured.
"Morning."
"What time is it?"
"Early. Just after seven."
She groaned, burying her face in my chest. "Too early."
"We could stay in bed."
"Tempting." She tilted her head up to look at me. "But I need a shower. I feel like I ran a marathon last night."
"You did. Several times, if I recall correctly."
She swatted my chest, but she was smiling. "Modest as ever."
"I don't believe in false modesty." I caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Shower sounds good, though. Join me?"
She hesitated, and I saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Last night had been one thing—passion, need, the culmination of weeks of tension. This was something else. Daylight intimacy. The kind of closeness that meant something beyond sex.
"Okay," she said finally. "But no funny business. I'm actually sore."
"I'll be on my best behavior."
"Somehow I doubt that."
I led her to the bathroom, which was probably the most extravagant room in the penthouse—marble floors, a walk-in shower with multiple heads, a soaking tub that could fit four people comfortably.
I'd had it designed when I bought the place, thinking I'd use it to impress the kind of women who were impressed by such things.
Now I was using it with a woman who barely glanced at the fixtures, more focused on adjusting the water temperature than admiring the Italian tile.
I stepped in behind her, the hot spray cascading over both of us, and reached for the soap. "Turn around."
She did, and I began working the lather across her shoulders, down her spine, over the curves I'd memorized with my hands and mouth just hours before. She sighed, leaning back into my touch, her tension melting under the heat and the pressure.
"This is nice," she said quietly.
"It is."
"I don't remember the last time someone took care of me like this."
"Then you've been with the wrong people."
"Maybe." She turned to face me, taking the soap from my hands. "My turn."
She washed me with the same careful attention, her fingers tracing the lines of my body like she was learning me by touch. When she reached my scars, she paused, her expression thoughtful.
"Do they still hurt?"
"Sometimes. When the weather changes, or when I've been too tense." I shrugged. "You learn to live with it."
"You've learned to live with a lot of things."
"So have you."
She didn't respond to that, just continued her methodical exploration. When her hands drifted lower, I caught her wrists.
"I thought you were sore."
"I am." But her eyes had darkened, and I could see the war playing out behind them. "Maybe a little soreness is worth it."
"Later," I said, and it took more willpower than I wanted to admit. "We have all the time in the world."
She raised an eyebrow. "Do we?"
"We'll make time."
We finished showering and dried off, moving around each other with an ease that surprised me. There was no awkwardness, no morning-after regret. Just two people sharing a space like they'd been doing it for years.
I gave her one of my shirts to wear while she waited for her clothes, and the sight of her in it—the fabric hanging to her mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows—did something to my chest that I wasn't prepared to examine too closely.
"Coffee?" I asked.
"God, yes."
We moved to the kitchen, falling into the same rhythm as yesterday. I made coffee while she perched on one of the island stools, her bare legs crossed beneath her. The domesticity of it should have felt strange. Instead, it felt right.
"I could get used to this," she said, watching me pour.
"The coffee?"
"All of it." She accepted the cup I handed her, wrapping her hands around it. "Waking up here. Having breakfast with someone. Not being alone."
"You don't have to be alone anymore."
"I know." She took a sip, her eyes distant. "That's what scares me. I've been alone for so long, I'm not sure I remember how to be anything else."
"You'll learn. We both will."
Before she could respond, there was a knock at the door. Kirill's particular rhythm—two short raps, a pause, one more.
"Come in," I called.
He entered looking as immaculate as ever, not a hair out of place despite the early hour. His eyes swept the room, taking in Keira in my shirt, me in just a pair of sweatpants, the two coffee cups on the counter. If he drew any conclusions from what he saw, his expression didn't show it.
"I have an update," he said. "The Petrovics are still dark, but Cormac has been active. He's been making calls to associates in Boston and Philadelphia. Trying to rally support."
"Support for what?"
"For another attempt at the girl." Kirill's pale eyes flicked to Keira. "He's not giving up. The Petrovic alliance is the only thing keeping him relevant. Without it, his power base collapses."
I felt my jaw tighten. "What kind of timeline are we looking at?"
"Hard to say. He's having trouble finding allies—no one wants to go up against us directly. But desperation makes people dangerous. He might try something reckless."
"Let him try."
"That's not strategy, Rodion. That's bravado." Kirill's voice was flat, uninflected. "We need to be proactive, not reactive. Waiting for him to make a move puts us on the defensive."
"What do you suggest?"
"We take out his support structure. The people he's trying to rally—we get to them first. Make it clear that helping Cormac means making enemies of the Rysev family.
" He paused. "I've already started making calls.
Demyan is doing the same from Chicago. We isolate him, cut off his options, force him into a corner. "
"And then?"
"And then we deal with him. Permanently."
I glanced at Keira. She was listening intently, her expression calm but focused. No fear, no panic. Just careful attention.
"What about the Petrovics?" she asked. "If Cormac is desperate, won't they push him to act faster?"
Kirill turned his gaze to her, that unnerving assessment I'd seen him do a hundred times. "Possibly. But the Petrovics are patient. They won't risk a major operation unless they're confident of success. Right now, they're not confident."
"Because of what I told you? About their operations?"
"Partly. We've been cross-referencing your information with our own intelligence. Some of it has already proved useful." He paused, and something almost like respect flickered in his expression. "You've given us an advantage we didn't have before."
Keira nodded slowly. "What else can I do? There must be more I can help with."
"For now, the best thing you can do is stay safe. Stay here. Let us handle the tactical side." He turned back to me. "I need to speak with you. Alone."
I looked at Keira, who was already sliding off the stool. "I should get dressed anyway. Find me when you're done."
She left, and I watched her go, tracking the way she moved through my space like she was starting to belong there.
"You slept with her," Kirill said when the door closed behind her.
"That's none of your business."
"It is if it affects your judgment." He moved to the window, his back to me. "I'm not telling you it was wrong. I'm telling you to be careful. Emotion clouds thinking. And right now, you can't afford clouded thinking."
"My thinking is fine."
"Is it?" He turned to face me. "Because from where I'm standing, you're more invested in this woman than I've ever seen you invested in anything. That's a vulnerability. Our enemies will exploit it."
"Let them try."
"That's the second time you've said that this morning. It's not a strategy."
I crossed my arms over my chest. "What do you want me to say, Kirill? That I'll stop caring about her? That I'll treat this like a business arrangement and nothing more?"
"I want you to be realistic about the situation."
"I am realistic. I'm also not going to apologize for giving a damn about someone." I held his gaze. "You should try it sometime. Might do you good."
Something flickered in his expression—too fast for me to read, gone before I could analyze it. "We're not talking about me."
"No. We never are."
Silence stretched between us, the particular tension of two brothers who loved each other but didn't always like each other. We'd been doing this dance our whole lives—Kirill pushing, me deflecting, both of us too stubborn to back down.
"I'm not your enemy, Rodion," he said finally. "I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need protection."
"Everyone needs protection. Even you." He moved toward the door. "I'll be downstairs if you need me. I have more calls to make."
He left without another word, and I stood alone in my kitchen, thinking about what he'd said. Emotion clouds thinking. He wasn't wrong. I was invested in Keira in a way I'd never been invested in anyone. And that did make me vulnerable.
But it also gave me something to fight for. Something beyond territory and money and the endless chess game of criminal politics.
I found her in the bedroom, dressed now in clothes Nina had sent—simple jeans and a soft sweater that made her look younger, more approachable. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the city below.
"Everything okay?" she asked when I entered.
"Fine. Kirill being Kirill."
"He doesn't approve. Of us."
"He doesn't approve of anything that isn't perfectly logical and strategically sound." I sat beside her, close enough that our shoulders touched. "That's his way. He'll come around."
"Will he?"
"Eventually. When he sees that this isn't a weakness—it's a strength."
She turned to look at me, her expression searching. "Is that what you think? That this is a strength?"
"I think having something to fight for makes you fight harder." I took her hand, lacing our fingers together. "I spent years fighting for territory, for money, for the family name. None of it felt like it mattered. Not really. But this—" I squeezed her hand. "This matters."
"Rodion..." She shook her head. "I don't know if I can be what you need. I don't know if I can be a mob wife, or whatever it is I'm supposed to be now. I've spent my whole life running from this world, and now I'm in the middle of it, and I don't know how to—"
"You don't have to be anything," I cut in. "You don't have to fit into some mold or play some role. You just have to be you. That's enough."
"What if it's not?"
"It is." I reached up, cupped her face in my hands.
"Keira, I don't care about what you can do for me strategically.
I don't care about alliances or leverage or any of that.
I care about you. The woman who saw through my bullshit from day one.
The woman who's stronger than anyone I've ever met.
The woman who makes me want to be better than I am. "
Her eyes were bright, and I saw the emotion she was trying to hold back. "I'm starting to imagine a life here," she admitted quietly. "With you. And that terrifies me."
"Why?"
"Because the last time I let myself imagine a future, it got ripped away from me. My mother. My career. Everything I built." She took a shaky breath. "I don't know if I can survive losing something again."
"You won't lose me."
"You can't promise that."
"No," I admitted. "I can't promise that nothing bad will ever happen. I can't promise that our enemies won't find a way to hurt us. But I can promise that whatever happens, you won't face it alone. I will be there, right beside you, fighting for you, fighting with you. Always."
She stared at me for a long moment, and I watched the war playing out behind her eyes—hope against fear, trust against experience. I didn't push. Just waited.
"Okay," she said finally.
"Okay?"
"Okay." She smiled, small but real. "I'm not ready to make grand declarations. I'm not ready to say the things you want me to say. But I'm here. I'm staying. And I'm going to try to believe that this could actually work."
"That's all I'm asking."
I kissed her then, soft and slow, nothing like the desperate passion of the night before. This was something else. A promise. A beginning.
When we finally pulled apart, she leaned her forehead against mine.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"Now we wait. We let Kirill and Demyan do what they do best. We stay together, stay safe, and we deal with whatever comes." I pulled back to look at her. "And tonight, I'm cooking you dinner. A real dinner, not just pasta from whatever's in the fridge."
"A third date?"
"Something like that."
She laughed, and the sound of it filled something in my chest I hadn't realized was empty.
"I'd like that," she said.
"Good."
I held her hand, and we sat together on the edge of the bed, looking out at the city that had been my home my whole life. Somewhere out there, Cormac was plotting, the Petrovics were planning, and a hundred dangers were circling like sharks.
But right here, right now, none of that mattered.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I had something worth protecting.
And I would burn the world down before I let anyone take it from me.