Chapter 14Valerian
14
Valerian
I retreat to my home office, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The room’s familiar scents of leather and aged whiskey do little to calm the storm brewing inside me. I loosen my tie and unbutton the top button of my shirt, suddenly feeling constricted.
The memory of Claire floods my senses like a shot of pure adrenaline. I can still feel the ghost of her warmth and see the flecks of gold in her eyes as they darkened with desire. Her coral-painted lips had been so close I could taste her breath, hinting of mint and something sweeter. The way she’d trembled slightly, her pulse visibly fluttering at her throat...
My hands shake slightly as I reach for the crystal decanter and pour a generous amount of thirty-year Dewars into a heavy-bottomed glass. The amber liquid catches the lamp light, throwing honey-colored reflections across my mahogany desk.
“Stop this nonsense,” I say under my breath, taking that first burning sip. The scotch blazes a familiar trail down my throat, its smoky warmth spreading through my chest. This is what I need. Something real to anchor me. I’ve built an empire on calculated risks and ice-cold logic. The bratva demands nothing less.
But Claire demolishes every carefully constructed wall with nothing more than a glance.
I start to pace. Nine steps from wall to window. Nine steps back. The city lights blur beyond the glass.
“What are you doing to me, Claire?” The words escape in a rough whisper when I press my forehead against the cool windowpane. The glass fogs with my breath, and my reflection is ghostly pale against the darkness beyond. “You’re making me question everything I thought I knew.”
The truth is, I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s awakening parts of me I thought long dead. Stirring emotions I’ve kept buried beneath layers of carefully constructed control.
I take another sip of whiskey, savoring the burn. The bratva has rules about such things. About becoming entangled with civilians, especially those indebted to us. It’s a complication I can’t afford, a weakness my enemies would exploit without hesitation, and it puts me in a position of power over her that implies coercion.
And yet...
I return to my desk, sinking into the leather chair. I trace the edge of a framed photo—the only personal item I allow myself in this space. It’s a picture of my parents on their wedding day, both of them young and full of hope. Before the bratva consumed their lives, when expectation and duty crushed that spark of innocence.
“What would you do, Papa?” I ask the smiling face of my father. He looks so different from the hard man I knew, the one who drilled into me the importance of strength and never showing weakness.
I settle back, closing my eyelids. The memory of Claire’s defiance flashes through my mind. The fire in her eyes when she stands up to me, refusing to be cowed. It’s intoxicating, that spirit. So different from the sycophants and yes-men who usually surround me.
“She’s not afraid of me,” I say aloud, a wry smile tugging at my lips. It’s revitalizing, and more than a little arousing, but there’s more to it than just physical attraction. I genuinely like her.
I drain the last of my whiskey, the alcohol leaving a warm trail down my esophagus. The smart move would be to distance myself. To treat Claire as nothing more than an employee and a means to an end. It’s what my father would have done.
But I’m not my father.
I’ve spent so long trying to live up to his legacy, to be the perfect bratva leader, that I’ve lost sight of my own desires. “I want her,” I admit to the empty room. The words hang in the air, both liberating and terrifying.
Wanting isn’t enough. I can’t simply take what I desire with Claire. She’s not some conquest to be claimed. The power imbalance between us is too great, and the situation is too fraught with complications.
I stand, moving to refill my glass. As I pour, my mind races through possibilities, weighing options like a chess master considering his next move. I can’t forgive her debt. It’s the only thing keeping her here, and the selfish part of me isn’t ready to let her go when I’m just beginning to unravel the mystery of her.
I can make her stay more...palatable. Create opportunities for us to interact on more equal footing. To build trust, slowly but surely. I swirl the whiskey in my glass. One misstep could send everything crashing down around me. If I reveal a weakness, the bratva , my legitimate businesses, and the careful balance I’ve maintained for years could all suffer.
Is Claire worth the risk?
I take another sip of whiskey, letting the warmth spread through me. In my mind’s eye, I see Claire’s smile—not the guarded one she usually wears, but the genuine one that lights up her entire face. The one I’ve caught glimpses of when she thinks I’m not looking.
Yes, she’s worth it.
The thought barely has time to settle before Dmitri enters my office, his face a mask of practiced neutrality. I straighten, watching him approach with measured steps. The air in the room shifts, growing heavy with unspoken tension.
“The Petrov Syndicate knows you’re back in town. They want to speak with you.”
My muscles tense involuntarily. The Petrov Syndicate has always been a thorn in my side, but now the stakes are personal since that showdown with Ansily led to his death at my hands a year ago. I don’t need to ask how they know. Matvey’s network rivals our own in its reach and efficiency. The moment I set foot back in Philadelphia, it was only a matter of time before word spread. “Why?”
Dmitri hesitates, his expression revealing something akin to concern. “Matvey claims he wants to ask you some questions about dealings with his brother, but I don’t buy it. They’re not looking for a deal or information, Valerian. Matvey wants you dead for killing his brother, and meeting with them can only be a trap.”
“I’m not that stupid.” I exhale harshly. “Keep an eye on Claire. I’ll handle this.”
I move toward the door, each step deliberate and measured. The familiar weight of my Makarov PM presses against the small of my back beneath my tailored suit jacket. Its presence is both a comfort and a reminder of the life I’ve chosen, if there was ever any choice for a boy whose father groomed him for the role.
“Dmitri,” I pause at the threshold, “I want a full report on Petrov’s movements over the last six months. Every business deal, every whispered conversation in dark corners, and every woman he’s banged. If he so much as sneezed, I want to know about it.”
“Consider it done.” He’s already pulling out his phone.
As I stride down the hallway, my mind churns with possibilities. The Petrov Syndicate has made their first move. Now it’s my turn to respond. I enter the elevator, pressing the button for the underground garage.
Seconds later, the elevator doors open to reveal the cavernous parking garage. My personal driver, Viktor, stands at attention beside a sleek black Mercedes.
“Where to, sir?” he asks as I slide into the back seat.
“‘The Velvet Cage.’ Take the long way. I need to make a call.”
As the car pulls out of the garage, I retrieve a burner phone from the stash kept in a hidden compartment in the seat. My fingers move swiftly over the keypad, dialing a number I’ve committed to memory.
The line rings twice before a gruff voice answers. “Yes?”
“Yuri,” I say, switching effortlessly to Russian. “It’s time to call in that favor you owe me.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a heavy sigh from one of the supposedly neutral assets, who heads up multiple families’ money-laundering accounts. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that, Rostova.”
“You know better than that, old friend. I need information on Matvey Petrov’s inner circle. Who he trusts, who he doesn’t, and most importantly, who might be willing to turn for the right price.”
“That’s dangerous territory, Valerian,” he warns. “The Petrovs don’t take kindly to traitors, and it’s not good for business for me to be perceived to be taking sides…”
“I don’t take kindly to traitors or those who are disloyal either,” I remind him, my voice edged with heat. “I’d rather not start a war if I can avoid it. Sometimes, a surgical strike is more effective than a bomb, as you can concur after that nasty business in Moscow, no?”
Yuri grunts in agreement, remaining silent. He’s clearly recalling how I hauled his ass out of the fire with the Moscow pakhan by helping divert suspicion from his guilty as sin nephew—currently in Siberia at an outpost for punishment—to one of Ansily’s underlings when a deposit went missing.
He finally speaks. “It’s important for our… uh, banking services… to be impartial to all families, but…”
“But?” I prompt when the silence continues.
“I owe you, so I’ll see what I can dig up with my skills. Give me forty-eight hours.”
“You have twenty-four,” I counter. “Time is not on our side.”
I end the call and lean back against the leather seat. As the car weaves through the bustling streets of Philadelphia, my thoughts drift back to Claire. Her presence in my life has complicated things in ways I never anticipated. She’s a vulnerability, a chink in my armor that Matvey Petrov would exploit without hesitation if he knew.
And yet for the first time in years, I have something—someone—worth fighting for beyond the cold calculations of power and territory.
Viktor’s voice breaks through my reverie. “We’re here, sir.”
I blink, realizing we’ve arrived at “The Velvet Cage.” The nondescript building belies the opulence within. “Wait here,” I instruct Viktor as I exit the car. “I won’t be long.”
The familiar scent of leather and expensive cologne greets me when I enter the club. Even at this early hour, a handful of high-rollers occupy the gaming tables, their faces showing various stages of concentration and desperation.
Osto—my new floor manager since I fired the one who let Jay Bennett and a few other addicts get in way deeper than they should—approaches with a deferential nod. “Mr. Rostova, we weren’t expecting you today.”
“That was the point,” I say coolly. “How are the numbers looking?”
“Up fifteen percent from last quarter,” he says, falling into step beside me as we move toward my private office. “The new VIP room is particularly popular.”
I nod, only half-listening. My mind is already several steps ahead, mapping out strategies and contingencies. As we reach the office door, I turn to him. “I need you to double security for the next few weeks. Discreetly, and run extensive background checks on all new members and employees, no exceptions. I don’t care if it’s your mother. You probe deeply. Got it?”
Osto’s eyebrows rise slightly, but he knows better than to question my orders. “Of course, sir. Anything else?”
I pause, hand on the doorknob. “Yes. If anyone from the Petrov organization shows up, I want to know immediately. Day or night.”
“Understood.” A flicker of concern crosses his features. “Should I be worried, Mr. Rostova?”
I offer him a thin smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Not if you do your job, Osto.”
As I close the office door behind me, I allow myself a moment of stillness. The situation settles on me. The Petrov Syndicate wants me dead. If they discover her growing importance in my life, Claire risks being caught in the crossfire. Somewhere in the shadows, Matvey Petrov is plotting his next move.
I pour myself some Dewars and take a long sip before setting down the glass with more force than necessary and moving to gather reports I’ll review at home. There’s work to be done and plans to be made. I can’t afford distractions, no matter how tempting.
The next evening, I end another call with Yuri, frustration simmering beneath my calm exterior. His report was disappointingly sparse, citing the Petrovs’ use of military-grade encryption, but he promises to keep trying. It’s a setback, but not an insurmountable one. I’ll give him more time, but my patience has limits.
The dining room is quiet when I enter, the table set for two. Anatoly approaches with a slight bow. “Mr. Rostova, Miss Bennett has declined dinner this evening. She requested a tray be sent to her room.”
I frown. “Did she say why?”
Alexei shakes his head. “No, sir. She simply said she wasn’t feeling well.”
My mind races through possibilities. Is she upset about something? Trying to avoid me? I’ve grown accustomed to our shared meals, finding unexpected pleasure in her company. The thought of her sulking in her room irks me.
“I’ll speak with her,” I say, already moving toward the stairs. Moments later, I rap my knuckles against Claire’s door,. “Claire? It’s Valerian. May I come in?”
A muffled groan answers me. Concern overrides courtesy, and I open the door.
The sight that greets me is unexpected. Claire lies curled on her side, a heating pad pressed to her abdomen. Her face is pale, eyelids squeezed shut in obvious discomfort.
“Claire?” I step closer, my irritation evaporating. “What’s wrong?”
She cracks open one eye, managing a weak smile. “Nothing serious. Just...women’s issues.”
I blink, momentarily at a loss. This isn’t a situation I’ve encountered before. “Can I get you anything?”
Claire shifts, wincing. “I’m okay. It’s just a particularly bad month. PCOS makes things unpredictable sometimes.”
The unfamiliar acronym throws me. “PCOS?”
“Polycystic ovary syndrome. It can cause irregular periods, among other things. Sometimes infertility too, and my cycles have been changing lately. Probably stress.”
I nod, absorbing this new information. A quick internet search on my phone reveals more details about PCOS and its symptoms. It also suggests various ways to alleviate discomfort. “I’ll be right back,” I say, already formulating a plan.
In my office, I open a shopping app. I could have an employee do this, but I’m compelled to handle it personally for no explicable reason. Within an hour, a delivery arrives with an assortment of feminine hygiene products, pain relievers, and an array of chocolates. I return to Claire’s room, arms laden with supplies.
Claire’s eyes widen when I set down everything. “Valerian, what is all this?”
“I did some research,” I say, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. “I wasn’t sure what you might need, so I got...options.”
A small laugh escapes her, quickly followed by a wince. “This is enough for a women’s soccer team, but wow. Thank you.”
I arrange the items on her nightstand, oddly pleased by her reaction. “The heating pad seems to be helping. Would you like a massage for your lower back? The Internet says that can be helpful.”
Claire hesitates, then nods. “That would be nice, actually.”
I help her shift to a more comfortable position, then begin working my fingers along her lower back. The muscles are tense beneath my touch. “Is this okay?” I ask, aware of how intimate this moment feels.
“Mmhmm,” Claire murmurs. “That’s perfect.”
As I continue the massage, she gradually relaxes. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before. Well, except my mom when I was a teenager, but this is above and beyond.”
Her words stir emotions. Tenderness. Protectiveness. More... I suddenly want to tell her how much she’s come to mean to me, and how her presence has changed things I thought immutable, but I hold back. Now isn’t the time, when she’s vulnerable and in pain. Instead, I focus on easing her discomfort, working my hands steadily across her back.
“Thank you, Valerian,” she says, her voice thick with gratitude.
I swallow hard, pushing down the surge of emotion her words evoke. “You’re welcome, Claire. Get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
As I leave her room, closing the door softly behind me, I’m struck by how much has changed. The woman lying in that bed has become far more than a means to an end or a simple distraction. She’s become someone I care for, deeply.
The realization is both exhilarating and terrifying.