5. Damien
5
DAMIEN
I have a raging erection.
It’s inconvenient. Annoying. Not unexpected.
I run a hand through my damp hair, exhaling slowly as I stare at my phone, the last message from the unknown number still glowing on the screen.
Goodnight, stranger.
My jaw tics as I lean back in the chair, the leather cool against my skin. My other hand rests against the bulge in my trousers, still aching from the night’s events.
It’s been a long time since a simple conversation—if you could even call it that—has gotten to me like this.
I should be sleeping.
I should be doing literally anything else.
Instead, I’m sitting here in my penthouse office, cock still hard, mind still buzzing with her breathy little pleas.
Please. Let me come. I need it.
My grip tightens around my phone.
Who the hell is she?
And why the fuck do I want to find out?
A knock sounds at the door.
I don’t react right away, taking my time adjusting myself, before setting the phone on the desk face down.
“Enter.”
Oleg steps inside, his presence imposing as always, his expression grim.
I know that look.
Business.
The kind that stains your hands. The kind that keeps you out of places where normal men sleep peacefully.
“Bad news?” I ask, voice even.
His shoulders shift slightly, the only sign of his discomfort. “They found Dmitry.”
I inhale slowly, tapping two fingers against the polished wood of my desk.
Dmitry Morozov.
A rat.
One who thought he could play both sides.
One who thought I wouldn’t find out.
I glance at the gold watch on my wrist, then back at Oleg. “Alive?”
Oleg’s expression doesn’t change. “For now.”
I nod. “Take me to him.”
He doesn’t ask if I need a moment to compose myself. He knows better.
There’s no need for composure.
There is only what must be done.
As I stand, my phone buzzes again.
I glance at it, lips pressing together as curiosity coils deep in my stomach.
Unknown Number: Still awake?
I resist the urge to smirk.
Instead, I slide the phone into my pocket, adjust the cuffs of my shirt, and walk past Oleg without another word.
I have other things to handle tonight. But when this is over?—
When Dmitry’s body is cooling in a forgotten warehouse?—
I think I just might text back.
* * *
The car ride is silent.
Not because Oleg and I don’t have things to say.
But because some things don’t need to be spoken.
The city moves around us, lights flashing past in a blur of neon and shadows. The tinted windows of the black Mercedes-Maybach keep us hidden, untouched by the outside world.
I run a hand over my jaw, rolling my shoulders. The last remnants of whatever I felt from earlier is gone.
This? This is what I know.
Not whispered confessions over text.
Not a stranger teasing me through a phone.
This—violence, control, consequences—this is what I was born into.
“Where is he?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Oleg doesn’t glance away from the road. “Dock seventeen. Warehouse is cleared. No security feeds.”
Good.
I tip my head back against the headrest, exhaling slowly.
Dmitry fucking Morozov. A man who knew exactly what he was doing the moment he sold us out to the Albanians.
There are rules in the Bratva. And loyalty is the first and last of them.
It was drilled into me before I even knew how to hold a gun. Before I knew that my last name isn’t just a name, it is my legacy. My father made sure of that.
He built this empire brick by brick, bullet by bullet, and when he died, it fell to me.
Not because I wanted it. But because there was no other choice.
You don’t walk away from the Bratva.
Not when you’re born into it.
Not when your name is Zaitsev.
The car slows as we approach the docks, the road growing emptier, darker. The only sounds are the waves crashing in the distance and the occasional hum of a passing ship.
Oleg parks, cuts the engine, and we step out.
The night air is cold, biting against my skin as we walk toward the warehouse. A single bulb flickers above the rusted door, casting long shadows along the cracked pavement.
The door creaks as Oleg pulls it open, revealing the dimly lit interior.
And there, tied to a metal chair, blood dripping from his split lip?—
Is Dmitry.
His head lolls forward, his breathing ragged, sweat soaking through his dress shirt.
When he hears our footsteps, he twitches, forcing his swollen eyes open. Recognition flickers across his face. Then fear.
“Zaitsev,” he croaks, voice shaking.
I take my time stepping forward.
Then I crouch in front of him, meeting his gaze head-on.
“Dmitry,” I murmur. “You look like shit.”
He swallows hard. “Please?—”
I tilt my head. “Please what?”
He blinks rapidly, his fear a tangible thing now. He knows, knows how this ends. And yet, he still tries. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to?—”
I click my tongue. “Didn’t mean to?” I straighten, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt as I glance at Oleg. “What do you think, old friend? Was it an accident?”
Oleg keeps his expression blank. But his voice is flat, lethal. “No accidents in this business.”
Dmitry starts shaking harder, his wrists straining against the zip ties. “Please, I?—”
I hold up a hand. “You sold us out.”
His mouth opens, closes. He stares at me, drowning in his own panic.
“You thought you were smarter than us,” I continue, voice calm. “That the Albanians wouldn’t talk. That we wouldn’t find out.” I crouch again, gripping the arms of the chair, leaning in until my face is mere inches from his. “You were wrong.”
His breath comes in shallow gasps now.
Good.
Fear is a powerful thing.
But it’s not enough.
I reach inside my jacket, pulling out my gun, and press the cold metal beneath his chin.
He whimpers.
“Now,” I say softly. “Tell me everything.”
And he does.
The moment the cold steel presses against his jaw, the fight drains out of him, replaced by the frantic, panicked wheezing of a man who knows he’s already dead.
“I—I didn’t have a choice,” he chokes out, shaking violently. “They—they came to me first! They said if I didn’t give them something, they’d?—”
I sigh, rolling my shoulders. “Dmitry.”
He flinches at the way I say his name, his bottom lip trembling.
“They came to you,” I repeat, slowly, as if I’m trying to understand something impossible. “And instead of coming to me, instead of coming to Oleg, you thought the best course of action was to betray your own brothers?”
His breathing stutters. “I?—”
“ Shhh. ” I shake my head, dragging the barrel of the gun up the side of his face, tracing the sweat-drenched skin at his temple. “You expect me to believe you did this for survival? That you, who have eaten at my table, who have bled with my men, who swore an oath of loyalty—simply had no choice?”
Dmitry’s throat bobs violently. “It wasn’t—wasn’t like that, I swear?—”
I click my tongue. “You are not a good liar.”
Oleg stands behind me, arms folded, unmoving, his face carved from stone.
There are no second chances in the Bratva.
There is only loyalty.
Or there is death.
I let the moment stretch, watching the terror crawl over his features, let it settle in his bones, before finally, I pull the gun away.
He sags in relief, chest heaving.
Poor bastard.
He thinks I’ll let him live.
“You have a family, don’t you?” I ask casually, slipping my gun back into its holster.
Dmitry nods quickly, like that might save him. “Yes—yes. A wife. A son.”
A son.
I exhale through my nose, staring down at him. I wonder if he’s thinking about his child now. If he’s thinking of all the excuses he told himself before he made his choice.
I crouch again, resting my forearms on my knees.
“Tell me something,” I murmur. “If your son grew up and betrayed you the way you betrayed me…what would you do?”
Dmitry’s face crumples.
He doesn’t answer, because he knows.
There’s only one answer.
I nod, as if that settles it. Then I stand, stepping back. “Oleg.”
Oleg moves without hesitation, a gloved hand reaching for the knife strapped to his belt.
Dmitry’s scream barely makes it past his lips before Oleg silences him, a clean slice across the throat.
The sound is wet, gurgling, then?—
Nothing.
Just the soft drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the concrete floor.
Oleg steps back, wiping the blade clean with a practiced flick of his wrist.
I exhale, flexing my fingers, and then I turn and walk out of the warehouse.
Oleg follows.
Neither of us speaks as we step back into the cold night air. The city still hums in the distance, oblivious. The sky is ink-black, the scent of salt and rust thick in the air.
The car is waiting. Oleg opens the door, and I slide in, my body settling into the leather seat, but my mind is somewhere else.
Dmitry is gone now.
One more name wiped from the books.
One less traitor breathing in my city.
I close my eyes, leaning back against the headrest.
And for some fucking reason, the first thing that comes to my mind is a text.
A teasing little voice through my phone.
Oh yeah? What would you do?
The heat from earlier, from her, rushes back, unwelcome, curling into something dark and restless in my gut.
I pull my phone out of my pocket.
Stare at the screen.
Before I can talk myself out of it?—
I type back.
Me: Still awake, printsessa?
I hit send.
* * *
I’m in a bad mood.
A terrible fucking mood.
Not because of Dmitry. That was inevitable. He made his choice, and I followed through. That’s business.
No, my mood is sour because I woke up, checked my phone, and there was nothing.
No reply.
Not a single word from her.
I don’t know why the hell I care. It was a mistake, a game, some stupid little thing that meant nothing.
But I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
About her.
The way she begged. The way her words bled with need, with desperation.
And now?
Silence.
It irritates me more than it should.
I scowl at the stack of reports on my desk, my fingers tapping against the polished wood as I fight the irrational urge to check my phone again.
Then the intercom on my desk buzzes.
“Mr. Zaitsev?” My assistant’s voice, nervous.
“Speak.”
“Uh—there’s an issue with the slide deck for your eleven o’clock. The file isn’t opening.”
I still.
The slide deck.
The one I specifically requested to be finalized last night.
I lean back, slowly, eyes narrowing. “And why not?”
A pause.
“We…don’t know, sir. The file seems to be corrupted. IT is looking into it.”
I inhale sharply through my nose. This is not the morning to test me. “Who was responsible for finalizing it?”
There’s a hesitation on the other end. “That would be…um, Sasha Caldwell, sir.”
Sasha Caldwell.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“She just recently joined as a junior analyst,” my assistant says.
I press the intercom button again. “Tell Ms. Caldwell to report to my office immediately.”
I release the button and sit back, tapping my fingers against the desk until there’s a knock on my office door.
I don’t bother looking up right away. “Enter.”
The door opens, and the moment she steps inside, the air shifts.
I look up.
And there she is.
Sasha Caldwell.
The girl from the elevator.
Her presence is disruptive, though I doubt she realizes it. Dark brown hair, slightly tousled like she ran a hand through it on the way here. Big, wide brown eyes that flick toward me before she quickly looks down—but not before I catch the flicker of something hot and nervous in them.
She’s young.
Too young.
Fresh out of college, I’d bet. One of those bright-eyed, eager hires, full of ambition that’ll get stomped out by this corporate hellhole within a year.
She’s also pretty.
Too pretty.
Which is fucking annoying.
Because I shouldn’t be noticing that.
I lean back in my chair, watching as she takes two careful steps forward before stopping, like she’s unsure of how close she’s allowed to be.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
Her voice is smooth but a little too quick, like she’s trying to get through this as fast as possible.
I study her for a moment, letting the silence stretch.
“Tell me, Ms. Caldwell,” I say slowly, watching the way her shoulders tense. “Do you usually submit corrupted files, or was this a special occasion?”
Her lips part slightly, her eyes flickering up in shock before she catches herself.
“I—” She sucks in a breath, straightening. “No, sir. It was a mistake. I take full responsibility.”
A mistake.
I tilt my head. “And what exactly happened?”
She hesitates for half a second, clearly trying to figure out what answer will get her out of here fastest.
“I—I think there was an issue with the formatting when I saved the final version,” she admits, blinking rapidly like she’s forcing herself not to panic. “I’ll have it fixed within the hour.”
A part of me wants to push harder. Make her squirm a little longer.
But something else catches my attention.
A vibration against my desk.
I glance down.
A new text.
From her—my mystery texter.
The moment I see it, my irritation evaporates, amusement curling through me instead.
I unlock my phone, scanning the message.
Unknown Number: Didn’t know if you were awake. Thinking about last night.
My smirk is immediate.
So, she’s been thinking about it.
Good.
Very good.
I flick my eyes back to Sasha, who is still standing there, watching me carefully, probably trying to gauge whether she’s about to get fired.
And just like that, she’s forgotten.
The little mistake? Doesn’t fucking matter anymore.
I wave a dismissive hand. “Fix it. That’ll be all.”
Her lips part slightly, like she’s surprised to be let off so easily. But she doesn’t argue.
“Yes, sir.” She turns, walking out of my office with one last glance over her shoulder.
I don’t acknowledge it. I’m already looking back at my phone.
Already typing.
Me: Took you long enough to reply, printsessa.
I hit send.
And just like that, my bad mood is gone.