Chapter 18
Keith
We were back to our hotel suite. The room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, casting long shadows across the king-sized bed where Aurelia lay beside me, her body curled slightly under the sheets, her breathing uneven.
I'd woken minutes ago, the faint murmurs escaping her lips pulling me from a light sleep.
She was still dreaming or trapped in a nightmare, her brow furrowed in distress, tiny lines etching her forehead like cracks in porcelain.
I shifted closer, propping myself on one elbow, my heart twisting at the sight.
Aurelia, the woman who'd brought light into my shadowed world, tormented even in repose.
Gently, I reached out, my finger tracing the furrow between her brows, smoothing it with a tenderness I reserved only for her.
"Shh," I whispered, though she couldn't hear me, my touch light as a feather. "It's okay. I'm here."
She murmured again, her voice fragmented, laced with a fear that clenched my chest. "Please… I can’t breathe..." The words were barely audible, a desperate plea that hit me like a punch. Then, softer, broken. "I'm sorry..."
I tensed, my hand freezing mid-caress, a cold spike of alarm racing through me.
What the hell was she dreaming about? The vulnerability in her tone, the raw terror.
It wasn't just a bad dream. It was something deeper, something that had clawed its way into her subconscious from a real horror.
My mind flashed to the party, to her sudden pallor when Boris approached, the way she'd frozen, her eyes glazing over like she'd seen a ghost. I'd chalked it up to nerves at the time, but now. .. this.
What secrets was she hiding? What had carved such fear into her soul? "What are you hiding from me, Aurelia?" I whispered silently, my finger resuming its gentle stroke, willing the shadows to lift from her face. "What horrors have you carried alone? Tell me... let me in."
She didn't stir, her murmurs fading into shallow breaths, but the damage was done.
My protective instincts roared to life, a fierce need to shield her from whatever haunted her battles.
I couldn't just sit here, helpless. Sliding from the bed quietly, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand as I padded to the living room.
The suite was silent, the city outside a distant hum, but my mind raced.
Boris Morozov, the one who'd made Aurelia bolt like a hunted animal.
There was a connection, I was sure of it.
I dialed Victor, the line connecting almost instantly.
"Sir," Victor answered, his voice crisp despite the hour, always alert, always ready.
"Victor," I said lowly, sinking into an armchair by the window, the city lights reflecting like cold stars.
"I need everything on Boris Morozov. Personal background, family, habits.
Financial accounts, assets, sources of income, any offshore holdings.
Off- record criminal ties, aliases, scandals buried or not.
And most importantly, any connection to Aurelia.
How does he know her? Cross-reference everything. I need it in an hour."
There was a brief pause, the sound of keys tapping in the background.
"Understood, sir. Personal and financial will be straightforward.
I've got access to his files through the family network.
Off-record might require pulling some strings with our contacts in Eastern Europe.
Boris has a murky past. The Aurelia link.
.. I'll dig deep. Expect the full dossier in your email by 5:30. "
"Good," I replied, my tone clipped. "No stone unturned, Victor. This is personal."
"Copy that," he affirmed, his efficiency a comfort. "Anything else?"
"Not yet. Call if you hit a wall." I hung up, leaning back in the chair, the robe falling open slightly as I stared into the darkness.
An hour. It felt like an eternity and a blink.
My mind churned. Boris was Father's enforcer, a man with a reputation for ruthlessness, his hands clean on paper but bloodied in the shadows.
If he was tied to Aurelia's pain... God, I'd make him pay.
The thought of anyone hurting her ignited a rage I'd rarely felt, a primal urge to protect what was mine.
She was mine, body, soul, the light in my darkness. Whatever he had done, he'd regret it.
The minutes dragged, the clock on my phone ticking mercilessly.
I paced the living room, cigar in hand, the plush carpet silent under my feet, the suite's opulence mocking my restlessness. Aurelia slept on, oblivious, but her murmurs echoed in my head, each one a dagger. Please... I can’t breathe.
I'm sorry. What the fuck had happened to her?
The vulnerability in her sleep, the way she'd frozen at the party.
It all pointed to trauma, deep and scarring.
I'd seen enough in my world. Betrayals, violence, to recognize the signs, but seeing it in her, the woman who'd made me feel human again, gutted me.
My phone buzzed at 5:27, Victor's name flashing. The email followed seconds later: "Dossier Attached. All requested info included." I opened it immediately, the screen's glow illuminating my face in the dark room as I scrolled through the attachment, a comprehensive PDF thick with details.
Personal: Boris Morozov, born Yuri Volkov in St. Petersburg, 1989.
Changed name at 18 after fleeing Russia following a family feud tied to organized crime.
No known living family. Parents deceased in a "car accident", younger sister disappeared at 15.
Habits: Early riser, heavy drinker, frequents underground boxing rings for "stress relief.
" Lives alone in a fortified penthouse on the Upper East Side, security detail 24/7.
Financial: Net worth around $150 million, hidden through shell companies in Cyprus and the Caymans.
Income from “consulting” with Krogen Enterprises, real estate flips in Eastern Europe, and off-book deals like arms trading and debt collection.
Roughly $80 million laundered through art auctions.
Fitting for a man posing as an art curator.
Off-record: Extensive criminal history. Narrowly escaped FBI scrutiny in 2018 for involvement in a human trafficking ring.
Turned informant on a competitor for immunity.
Ties to Father date back 8 years, recruited after a botched deal in Moscow.
Now handles "sensitive operations," including the Butcher countermeasures.
The Aurelia connection was buried in a subsection, but it leaped out like a flare: Morozov/Harlan Link to Aurelia Sterling. My stomach dropped as I clicked, the details unfolding like a nightmare.
Derek Harlan, Boris’s primary alias, presented himself as an art curator with a carefully fabricated history.
His first contact with Aurelia Sterling dates back to April 2021, at a small coffee shop near her internship at a Manhattan design firm.
Surveillance photos show him appearing in the background multiple times over several weeks, behind her, across the street, standing in line.
His positioning changed each time, suggesting deliberate observation rather than coincidence.
When he finally approached, they bonded over shared passions for design, architecture, and the emotional language of art, “how beauty could hide pain,” as one of his texts later read.
Their relationship escalated quickly. Dinners, gallery visits, and midnight walks through the city, captured in a series of photos, laughing, intimate, hands intertwined.
To anyone watching, they looked like a couple in love.
Then came a trip. Harlan invited her to accompany him on what he called a “professional excursion” to Europe, to assist in the restoration of a private art collection. On the way to the airport, he sedated her. Aurelia lost consciousness mid-flight.
A soft creak pulled me from the screen. Aurelia leaned on the bedroom doorframe, her gown rumpled, eyes sleepy but alert, watching me. "Keith? What are you doing up?"
I set the phone aside, rising quickly. "Couldn't sleep. You okay?"
She nodded faintly, but her eyes were shadowed. I approached, taking her hand, leading her to the couch in the living room. "Come here."
I lay back, pulling her beside me, her face to my chest, arm around her waist. She snuggled in, her breath evening. "I'm sorry for the scene at the party," she murmured, voice muffled against my skin. "I didn't mean to run off like that."
I stroked her hair, the waves silky under my fingers. "You didn't make a scene. You were brave, coming back at all. And if anyone made you uncomfortable, they're the problem, not you. You're my light in all this. Don't ever apologize for needing space."
She relaxed slightly, her body softening as she melted into me, but her voice was still fragile, like she was holding herself together by threads.
“It was him,” she whispered. “Derek… or Boris… whatever he calls himself now.”
My jaw clenched, but I kept my voice steady, gentle. “Tell me.”
She hesitated, her fingers tracing slow circles over my chest as if grounding herself.
“Four years ago,” she began, “I was interning at a small design firm in Manhattan. Rushed, overwhelmed, always carrying my sketchbook everywhere. One morning, I was at a corner coffee shop, going through ideas before work. He saw my sketches and stopped. Said he was an art curator… that he specialized in underground collections and private restorations.” Her breath shook.
“He knew exactly what to say. He told me my lines were ‘emotional,’ that the way I balanced symmetry and chaos reminded him of lost European architects. No one had ever talked about my work like that. He made me feel… special.”
Her voice drifted, her eyes staring at something far away.
“We started meeting more. Lunch breaks turned into gallery visits, evenings discussing design philosophy. He was charming, soft-spoken, intelligent, the kind of man who listened so intensely you felt important. We walked through hidden galleries in Chelsea, and he knew every artist, every texture, every forgotten piece. He’d tell me, ‘Beauty is the quietest kind of power, Aurelia.’” She swallowed hard.
“I trusted him. Completely. He never pushed, never crossed a line. Not then. He played the long game. Made me think I was the one choosing him.”
Her fingers curled slightly against my chest.
“Three months later, he invited me on a trip. Said a private collection in Prague needed restoration drafts and he wanted my opinion. I thought it was my shot. My real break. I was na?ve. We drove toward the airport, talking about future plans, collaborations, my portfolio. He handed me a bottle of water, smiling like always. ‘Stay hydrated,’ he said. ‘It’s a long flight.’”
Her voice cracked.
“I drank it. It tasted normal. But halfway there… my vision blurred. My limbs felt heavy. I tried to ask him what was happening and he just… watched me. Like he’d been waiting for that moment.”
Her breathing quickened. I threaded my fingers through her hair, steadying her.
“You’re safe,” I murmured. “You can stop—”
“No,” she whispered. “I need to finish.”
Her voice grew softer, trembling.
“I woke up in a warehouse. The air was cold… smelled like rust and damp concrete. My wrists hurt with zip ties. My mouth was dry, my head spinning. At first, I thought I’d been robbed. But then I heard crying. Soft. Broken. Other women… maybe five or six. All bound. All terrified.”
A tear slid down her cheek.
“And then he appeared. Boris. Not Derek. Not the curator. Not the man who loved art and poetry. He walked in like he owned the shadows. He didn’t even look guilty. He looked… bored. Like we were inventory.” Her breath hitched.
“He said, ‘Don’t cry, Aurelia. You’ll ruin your face. Buyers like purity.’”
My grip on her tightened. Fury burned in my chest, white-hot.
“He’d been grooming me the entire time. I wasn’t a person to him. I was… a product.”
She closed her eyes.
“Three days. I don’t remember all of it. Just the fear. The hands. The darkness. The way he looked at us like we were nothing.”
Her voice was barely a whisper now.
“I thought I’d die there.”
She shook as the memories clawed up her throat.
I pulled her closer, hiding her against my chest, my voice low, steady, promising violence.
“You’re never going to see that place again. And he’ll never touch you, look at you, or speak your name again. I swear it.”
Tears wet my shirt, and my heart shattered for her. "How did you get out?"
"My brother, Killian," she said, her voice cracking but resolute.
"He's in the NYPD, organized crime unit.
Always protective, always had a tracker on my phone since college.
When I didn't check in, he mobilized. Raided the place at dawn, SWAT bursting in, guns blazing.
The women... some were freed, others... it was too late for some.
Killian saved me, but the nightmares... they stayed. "
The images stung. Her with him, smiling, unaware of the monster. Jealousy, sharp and irrational, twisted in my gut. My Aurelia, My Maneskin, My Moonlight, touched by that filth. Rage followed, cold and promising violence. Boris would pay. I'd dismantle his world.
I held her close, my lips brushing her temple. "You are mine to protect now, Aurelia. No harm will come to you. Not from him, not from anyone. I'll hunt the shadows until there are none left for you to fear. You're stronger than you know, and I'm here, always."
She relaxed, her breathing evening, the tension easing as she drifted back to sleep, her face peaceful against my chest for the first time that night. I watched her, vowing silently to end this for her, for us.