Chapter 14Damir
14
Damir
I wake at 5 a.m., my internal clock precise as always. The first thing I register is the unfamiliar weight against my chest. Elena’s warm body is curled against me, her breathing deep and even. Her dark hair spills across my pillow, one arm draped over my torso.
I never allow this. Not with anyone. Even with her, she’s always returned to her own bed, or I’ve left for mine after the coupling ended. Women don’t stay the night in my bed. They certainly don’t sleep with their bodies intertwined with mine, vulnerable and trusting. Yet here she is, and I’ve slept through the night without waking once—something that hasn’t happened since I was a child.
I study her face for a moment. In sleep, the wariness that usually tightens her features is gone. She looks younger and peaceful. Something constricts my chest at the sight.
With precision, I extract myself from her embrace, careful not to disturb her. She makes a small noise of protest but settles back into sleep, pulling my pillow closer to her body as a replacement. I stand beside the bed for a moment, watching her. This is dangerous territory. I’m becoming attached to a woman who’s only here because of our arrangement.
I pull on a pair of sweatpants and head to the kitchen. The marble countertops gleam in the early morning light filtering through the windows. The city stretches out below, already stirring despite the early hour.
Cooking has always been therapeutic for me. I gather ingredients from the refrigerator—eggs, milk, flour, and fresh berries I had delivered yesterday. I measure precisely, whisking the batter until it’s perfectly smooth. The familiar motions center me, push away thoughts of Elena sleeping in my bed, of how right it had felt to wake with her beside me.
I heat the pan, testing the temperature with a drop of water that dances across the surface. The first crepe is always sacrificed, which is a rule of cooking I learned long ago. I pour the batter, swirling the pan to create a thin, perfect circle. The smell of butter and vanilla fills the kitchen as I flip it with a practiced flick of my wrist.
By the time I hear movement from the bedroom, I’ve created a stack of paper-thin crepes, prepared a bowl of macerated berries with just a hint of sugar, and brewed a pot of the specialty coffee I import directly from Colombia. The orange juice is freshly squeezed, pulp strained out the way I prefer it.
Elena appears in the doorway, her hair tousled from sleep, wrapped in my black silk robe. It’s too large for her, with the sleeves rolled up several times, and the hem dragging on the floor. Something primitive and possessive stirs in me at the sight of her in my clothing.
She stops short when she sees me at the stove, her eyes widening as she takes in the spread on the counter. “You cook?” Her voice is still husky from sleep.
I pour batter for another crepe. “I do many things people wouldn’t expect.”
She approaches cautiously, as if afraid of breaking the spell of domesticity that’s settled over my usually sterile kitchen. “This looks amazing.”
“Coffee?” I nod toward the pot.
“Please.” She slides onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, watching me with curious eyes while I pour her a cup, adding a splash of cream the way I’ve noticed she takes it.
“I didn’t know you could cook like this.” She accepts the coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug. “I mean, I figured you had a personal chef or something.”
“I do, but sometimes, I prefer to do things myself.” I plate the crepes, layering them with the berries and a light dusting of powdered sugar. “Food preparation is one of them.”
Her first bite draws a small moan of appreciation that sends heat through my body. “This is incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
I hesitate, then decide there’s no harm in telling her. She already knows what I am. “The housekeeper at the compound where I grew up. Irina was the only one who showed me any kindness.”
Elena sets down her fork with a soft clink against the China plate. Her eyes widen, and she leans forward, breakfast momentarily forgotten. “Compound?” she asks, the single word carrying weight and curiosity.
I take a seat across from her, the wooden chair creaking slightly beneath me. My own plate of crepes sits untouched, steam still rising from the berries. I run my thumb absently over a small scar on my wrist—a souvenir from those early days. “My parents sold me to the bratva when I was eight years old,” I say, keeping my voice steady, factual. “My father had gambling debts he couldn’t pay. I was the currency.”
There’s shock in her expression. Her face pales, the freckles across her nose suddenly more pronounced against her skin. “Eight? That’s—” she starts, her voice breaking.
“Young, yes. Not the youngest they’ve taken though. Anton was just six when he joined us at the compound.” I pick up my coffee mug, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a slow sip. The bitterness coats my tongue, grounding me in the present. “The organization saw potential in me. I was placed in a training compound outside Moscow. That’s where I met Nikolai and Anton.”
I wait for the disgust, the pity—reactions I’ve seen when I’ve revealed pieces of my past, but Elena just sits there, her breakfast forgotten, listening as if trying to understand rather than judge. “You were just children.”
“We were merchandise,” I correct her gently. “Assets to be developed. Nikolai was nine and already there. Anton was placed in the compound two months after me. We all became friends because we had to. Survival required alliances.”
Elena pushes away her plate, her appetite apparently gone. “What was it like? The compound?”
“Cold. Brutal. Efficient.” I cut a perfect triangle from my crepe. “We trained sixteen hours a day. Combat, languages, weapons, and strategy. Failure meant punishment. Success meant less punishment.”
“And Irina? The housekeeper?”
A rare smile touches my lips. “She ran the kitchens. I was assigned there as punishment for fighting with another boy. She taught me to cook when the others were sleeping. Said every man should know how to feed himself.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was executed when I was twelve. They discovered she was passing information to a rival organization in exchange for enough money to properly feed us.” I say this matter-of-factly, though the memory still cuts deeply. “Her reasons didn’t matter, and I was forced to watch.”
Elena reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. The gesture is so unexpected I nearly pull away. “I’m so sorry, Damir.”
I turn my hand, making our palms meet. Her skin is soft against my calluses. “It was a long time ago.”
“What happened after that? With you and Nikolai and Anton?”
“We grew up and became the organization’s most effective team.” I withdraw my hand, resuming eating. “Nikolai was the charmer, Anton the intelligence gatherer, and I was the strategist. We were inseparable for years.”
“Until he betrayed you.”
I nod, my jaw tightening. “It was a territorial dispute over the Philadelphia port operations, which are valuable smuggling routes. Nikolai wanted to expand aggressively by taking over competing territories. I advocated for a more measured approach.”
“And Anton?”
“Anton sided with me. Nikolai didn’t take it well.” I push up the sleeve of my T-shirt, revealing a jagged scar that runs from my shoulder halfway down my bicep. “He got me alone one night and tried to kill me. Said if I wouldn’t follow him, I was in his way.”
Elena’s eyes trace the scar. “How did you survive?”
“I was faster. Always have been.” I pull my sleeve back down and stand, clearing our plates. “Nikolai set me up as the primary suspect in the federal investigation and scurried to Moscow for the fallout. He’s been trying to destroy me ever since.”
Elena follows me to the sink. “Why? If it was just a disagreement about strategy?—”
“Because I was chosen to lead instead of him.” I rinse the plates methodically. “The old pakhan —the leader—selected me as his successor. Nikolai never forgave either of us for that.”
“And now you’re stuck in this life because of him. Alone…”
I turn to look at Elena, who watches me with those intelligent eyes that see too much.
“I’m not sure I want to do it alone anymore,” I say, my voice quieter than intended. The words hang between us, more revealing than anything I’ve said to her before. They surprise me as much as they seem to surprise her.
Her lips part, but before she can respond, I move to the living room, where my laptop sits on the coffee table. I open it, pulling up an email. “We have an event tonight. The Governor’s Charity Gala.”
Elena follows me. Her hair falls loosely around her shoulders as she leans over to see my screen. “A charity gala?” Her eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. “That doesn’t seem like your scene. Crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes rather than...” She trails off, gesturing vaguely at me.
“It’s the perfect opportunity to strengthen my alibi and reputation with certain officials who will be attending.” I turn the laptop toward her so she can see the ornate digital invitation with its gold lettering and city seal. “The FBI will definitely be watching. They always monitor these events.” I tap the screen where the guest list shows several names I’ve highlighted. “Half the justice department shows up to these things. Nothing says ‘innocent businessman’ like writing a large check for a charitable fund for the uninsured while shaking hands with a federal prosecutor.”
She studies the invitation. “And you want me to go with you?”
“You’re my wife, so it would be strange if you didn’t.” I stand, gesturing for her to follow me. “I’ve had something delivered for you.”
I lead her to her bedroom, opening the door. There are three designer gowns laid out across her bed—one deep emerald, one midnight blue, and one black with subtle silver beading. “Try them on. Choose whichever you prefer but keep them all.”
Elena approaches the dresses cautiously, running her fingers over the expensive fabric. “These must have cost a fortune.”
“Money is irrelevant. What matters is that you look the part tonight.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her. “These people will be scrutinizing you and looking for weaknesses. You need to appear confident and comfortable in luxury.”
She lifts the emerald dress, holding it against her body. The color makes her skin glow. “I don’t know if I can pull this off, Damir. I’m not used to this world.”
“You underestimate yourself.” I step closer, taking the dress from her hands and holding it up to her shoulders. “You’re intelligent, beautiful, and strong. You’ll adapt.”
Our gazes meet, and for a moment, I see uncertainty in hers that slowly morphs to the determination I’ve come to admire. “What time is the gala?”
“Eight o’clock. We’ll leave at seven-thirty.” I hand her the midnight blue dress, which is my favorite. “A team will be here at five to help you prepare. Hair, makeup, or whatever you need.”
She nods, tightening her fingers on the fabric. “And what exactly am I supposed to do at this gala? Besides look pretty on your arm?”
“Be charming. Engage in small talk. Dance with me.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her cheek. “And watch. Listen. These people will speak more freely around a beautiful woman they underestimate.”
“You want me to spy for you.”
“I want you to be my eyes and ears in places I can’t access.” I drop my hand. “Women’s restrooms. Conversations between wives. Places where men like me aren’t welcome.”
She considers this, her expression thoughtful. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” I step back, giving her space. “Try on the dresses, especially the blue one. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
As I turn to leave, she calls after me. “Damir?”
I pause, looking back at her.
“Thank you for telling me about your childhood. About Irina.” Her eyes are soft with compassion. “It helps me understand you better.”
I nod once, unsure how to respond to her gratitude. No one has ever thanked me for revealing my vulnerabilities before. “Try on the dresses, Elena,” I say again, and close the door behind me.