Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Alexander
Steam still lingered in the bathroom as I threw on a black silk robe, toweling off my damp hair.
Tonight's "business meeting" had been even more tedious than expected—that smart-ass American spent the whole time trying to test my limits with his pathetic tactics, until I put a loaded Makarov on the table.
Only then did he finally learn how to shut up and listen.
Boring.
I'd been maintaining this order through violence and fear for ten years now.
Ever since the day my parents fell in pools of blood, I'd learned to crush enemies with superior force.
I'd succeeded, but after the flames of revenge died out, only endless emptiness remained.
Everything had become routine, without surprises.
Until tonight.
My phone buzzed softly on the bed.
I didn't even bother looking up. Messages at this hour were usually Ivan's follow-up reports or some idiot causing trouble. But it buzzed again. Then a third time. Irritated, I walked over and grabbed the phone.
The screen showed messages from an unknown number.
Photos.
From that ballsy little reporter—the one who'd been scared shitless but still had the guts to photograph me.
My eyebrow lifted slightly.
Honestly, I'd expected her to agonize for a week, maybe even block my number entirely. That terrified expression hadn't looked fake.
But she'd actually sent them.
I leaned back against the headboard and opened the first photo.
Not exactly professional, even a bit blurry from shaky hands, but that angle.
.. damn clever. She'd captured something I never showed the world—not the power and fearlessness, but a moment of detachment and exhaustion amid the chaos that I hadn't even noticed myself.
I lit a Cuban cigar, taking a deep drag and letting the harsh smoke fill my mouth.
Anna Parker.
Her terribly disguised face flashed through my mind. Smoky makeup so heavy it looked like she'd been punched, cheap blonde curls that screamed fake, and that bargain-bin leather dress. But none of it could hide the fire in those green eyes—panic, defiance, and a curiosity she didn't even recognize.
I'd already had Ivan investigate her—21, intern at the New York Daily, living in a South Side shithole even rats would avoid. No boyfriend, no criminal history, clean as fresh paper. An ordinary girl who'd dared to point a camera at me on my own turf.
I chuckled softly. How long had it been since anyone dared look me in the eye, let alone capture me through a lens? The politicians who trembled before me, the business partners desperate to please me, the subordinates who bowed and scraped—they all knew who I was, what crossing me meant.
But she didn't know.
Or maybe she'd guessed but still dared to meet my gaze.
Interesting. This little bird disguised as a wildcat was bolder than I'd thought.
I stubbed out the cigar and started typing.
"Up late?"
Send.
The feeling was foreign—anticipation. Like being fifteen again, waiting for prey to take the bait. Heart racing, breath catching.
She replied quickly with cute defiance and shyness. We chatted back and forth like two normal young people talking through the night. She was fascinating, so much so that I got completely lost in our private world, forgetting business, vendettas, schemes.
Until she sent that message: "You send one first, maybe I'll think about it.."
I stared at those words for several seconds.
She was challenging me. How interesting.
I looked down at myself—fresh from the shower, robe hanging loose, chest exposed.
An idea struck.
I opened the camera and casually untied the robe, letting it fall open to reveal my chest and abs.
Leaning against the headboard with black silk sheets as backdrop, water droplets still beading on my skin, I angled the shot to show hints of the tattoos on my chest and ribs—ink I'd gotten years ago to honor my parents.
Hair still damp and tousled across my forehead, I stared directly into the lens with naked, predatory desire.
Click.
I glanced at the photo. Perfect—seductive without being crude.
A fair response to her boldness.
The moment I hit send, I felt a long-forgotten thrill—not the satisfaction of conquest, but pure curiosity about her reaction.
What would she do?
Minutes crawled by, each second building anticipation in my chest.
Ten minutes passed. Nothing. But surprisingly, the silence didn't douse the fire—it was like liquor, making my body burn hotter.
I imagined her now. Staring at her phone screen, face red as blood, fumbling for a response. Maybe she'd thrown the phone aside, then picked it up for another look.
Or maybe... she was doing something more interesting. Like zooming in on the photo with her fingers, breathing getting rough...
The thought made my stomach tighten. Damn, when had some kid gotten under my skin like this? The loss of control was both alien and exhilarating.
With long-dormant mischief, I sent a question mark.
A few more minutes, then the phone finally buzzed.
"This... this is too much."
Seeing her text, I couldn't help smiling. Even her protests were adorable, like a child trying to hide her curiosity.
I replied: "Too much? I thought you'd like it. After all, you took a long time before responding."
"I did not!" Instant reply.
Adorably quick.
"Really? Then why the delay? What were you busy with?"
Long silence. Then: "...I spilled my coffee."
Lying little thing. I could practically see her biting her nails in agitation.
I typed: "Coffee this late? Very dedicated, Miss Reporter."
"You're up too, aren't you?"
Her comeback made me laugh out loud. Smart girls always knew how to deflect.
"I am indeed awake," I replied, "but I'm up waiting for a ballsy little reporter's response. You?"
This time she was quiet longer. I could imagine her expression—flushed, nervous, but unable to resist anticipating my next words.
"I..." She started typing, then deleted it. Started again, deleted again.
I waited patiently, like a leopard watching prey walk into a trap.
Finally: "I can't sleep."
"Why?" Playing dumb.
"You know why." This reply carried a hint of accusation.
My heart skipped. She'd admitted it—subtly, but she'd admitted my effect on her.
"I want to hear you say it."
"Say what?"
"Why you can't sleep. What you're thinking. Whether... you want to see me too."
"Typing..." appeared, then vanished. Appeared again, vanished. I could feel her internal struggle.
"Anna." I sent just her name.
"What?"
"What are you afraid of?"
Quick reply this time: "Afraid of you."
Three simple words that made my chest tighten.
I pulled a cigar from the bedside box and lit it. "Why are you afraid of me?"
"Because you're dangerous."
Perceptive girl.
She was right. I was dangerous. To her, to anyone.
But for her...
"Maybe for you, I'm never dangerous."
"How do you know?"
"Because if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have let you leave safely last night."
Long silence. Then: "What do you want?"
I stared at that question for a long time. She was giving me an opening to be honest. But I didn't want to scare her. Not yet.
"I want to see you." I finally replied.
"When?"
Her directness caught me off guard. I'd expected more convincing.
"Today."
"??? Today?" Three question marks showing her shock.
"You realize it's past midnight, right?"
"God... but..."
But what? I waited patiently. Another long silence.
"I don't know if this is a good idea." she finally said.
"Most things worth doing aren't good ideas."
"Like what?"
"Like a reporter photographing a strange man. Like texting a dangerous person at midnight. Like... trusting someone you should fear."
"You're convincing me to do something stupid."
"I'm giving you a choice," I corrected. "Choose safety, or choose truth."
This time she was quiet for five full minutes. I started worrying I'd pushed too hard. Just as I prepared to send something gentler, her reply came.
"What if I said yes?"
My heart raced.
"Good girl." I controlled my impulse. "Tonight at eight. I'll send you the address early."
"Make sure you clear your whole evening," I added wickedly.
"God..."
"What?"
"What if... hypothetically, I chickened out?"
"You'd regret it, since I'm a 'dangerous' person."
"..."
I smiled. "Sweet dreams, Anna. See you today."
She didn't reply again.
I set down the phone and leaned back.
The cigar burned slowly between my fingers, smoke curling in the lamplight. I stared at the ceiling, my mind full of her—those green eyes, those kissable lips, that badly disguised but unstoppably defiant look.
The little thing was hooked.
Now I just had to reel her in slowly.
I stubbed out the cigar and closed my eyes.
Today would be interesting.
"Pakhan, the Romanov family demands that tomorrow we must..."
"Let them wait." I cut off Ivan's report, checking my watch—7:20. "I have more important business."
Ivan paused.
He'd followed me for ten years, rarely seeing me prioritize anything over business. But he quickly composed himself and nodded. "Yes, sir."
That's why I valued him. He knew when to ask questions and when to shut up.
After sending Ivan away, I walked alone through the streets.
The night wind was cold, cutting like knives across my face, clearing away the day's lingering alcohol and cigarette smoke. New York winter nights were always like this—brutal, icy, merciless.
I took a shortcut through a quiet alley—the fastest route to where I'd parked.
That's when I heard voices from deep in the alley.
Crude laughter and a woman's angry shouts.
"Let me go! You bastards!"
That voice... was Anna.
I froze instantly, every nerve in my body tensing.
What was she doing here? It was forty minutes before our meeting time—why was she in this alley?
Following the sound, I saw three drunk men cornering her against a wall. One gripped her arm while the other two blocked her escape. They reeked of cheap vodka and sweat—I could smell it from several meters away.