Chapter 9
The side exit puts me out in a small parking lot in the alley, and I tug down the hem of my fitted sweater to hide the evidence of what just happened as I head toward the street.
I wrap my arms around myself against the cold, my steps slowing when I spot the dark sedan idling at the curb. After the intimate moment with Orien, the sight of the car sends an unwelcome jolt of reality through my system.
The driver’s window drops two inches to show a driver I recognize from the compound.
My jaw tightens as irritation spikes through me. How dare Uncle Mikhail send one of his security team to the Blue Note to pick me up. What if someone spots me climbing into the car and reports it back to Orien?
I change the angle of my steps to pass the car on the way to the bus stop. “Not here.”
“You’re expected at home,” comes the reply before the window rolls back up.
This summons only intensifies my irritation. The Vartanian compound is thirty minutes from Ashford Heights in good traffic, and my scheduled check-in is still days away. I’ve been passing my notes almost every other day.
What could be so urgent as to risk my mission to summon me now?
The car pulls past me and takes a left at the light while I wait at the crosswalk.
By the time I reach the next street, I’m shivering from the cold but sizzling with anger. I can’t even go home to change into clean clothes.
Leather polish mingles with the itchy bite of the driver’s cologne in the back seat. The divider between front and back is up, the black-tinted privacy glass separating me from the world outside. I settle into the seat, hands loose on my thighs.
No point in attempting conversation. The driver hasn’t been authorized to speak to me.
The car pulls away from the curb, merging into late-night traffic. Streetlights cut through the tinted windows in slow gold slices as the city moves past, illuminating me in rhythmic flashes before plunging me back into darkness.
Each brief moment of light gives me another chance to check my face in the reflection to ensure nothing shows that shouldn’t.
I use every one of them to rebuild, piece by careful piece, the composure that crumbled on my knees in the Blue Note’s break room.
The mission parameters haven’t changed. What happened with Orien is another piece of intelligence, another step in the process of establishing…
My thoughts falter as the memory rises of Orien’s gentle touch on my cheeks and threading through my hair. The image is too vivid, too immediate, the lingering sensation of his warmth on my tongue too fresh to allow for comfortable distance.
I try again, reviewing the encounter the way I would review any operation. What was gained? What was exposed? What leverage was established? But the analysis keeps sliding into unexpected channels.
I do not think of the way his pheromones still cling to me. Do not catalog the firm ridges of his thigh beneath my palm or the sound of his breath catching as I took him deeper.
If Orien had stood me up and bent me over one of the break tables, I would have let him, and it wouldn’t have been about the mission.
My throat tightens at the realization. I wanted him to claim me. To make some assertion that would allow me to justify the magnetic draw every time those pale gray eyes fix on mine. Anything to frame this as strategy rather than want.
Instead, I gained nothing but the option to kneel at his feet, take his cock in my mouth, and ride the wave of my own pleasure as I serviced him.
The streets slide past, stores closing, bars still open, the city moving through its nightly rhythms without pausing for my crisis of identity.
We leave Ashford Heights behind, driving north to the outskirts of Northreach, neighbor to Skyhaven but without the water access, where the Vartanian compound sits isolated from outsiders and unexpected visitors.
I can still contain this. Emotional reaction is data, not deviation. Seduction assumes a certain level of physicality. I can use this to deepen my cover and establish a more secure position within Blue Note’s infrastructure.
My reaction to Orien is an asset, not a liability.
I can manage both sides of this. I have for eight years, as Alexei’s brother and his quiet spy. What is one more layer? One more face to wear?
The compound gates appear ahead, the massive iron things swinging open at our approach, the security cameras tracking the car’s progress as we wind up the long drive.
Bare tree branches on either side stretch toward the night sky, the snow that dusted the ground last week already turned to dirty slush at the edges of the paved path.
I straighten my shoulders and square my jaw, wiping away any trace of softness.
Goodbye, Lee’s easy grace.
Hello, Levon’s careful control.
But as the car pulls to a stop before the main house’s massive doors, I can’t quite shake the sense that the careful compartmentalization I’ve maintained for years has developed a hairline crack I can neither locate nor repair.
It doesn’t matter, so long as I’m the only one who knows it’s there.
The car stops, and the driver climbs out to open my door.
With a soft exhale, I step into the cold night air and leave Lee behind.
The inner room of the Vartanian compound is warmer than it should be, the heating system set to accommodate Mikhail’s preference rather than comfort.
I stand before the massive mahogany table, still wearing the fitted ribbed sweater that hugs my torso and hips, the slim-cut trousers that give my legs the illusion of added length, the sparkly clip holding my dark hair back.
The lights are dimmed, thank goodness, hiding the slightly darker spots on my pants not yet dry.
Alexei sits at one end of the table, with Uncle Mikhail at the other, turning the space between them into a battlefield instead of a conference room.
Books line the shelves along the walls, leather-bound volumes well-worn from generations of being handled. A single painting of a landscape in somber colors hangs on the far wall. No brightness or joy for the family compound.
I’m not offered a chair as I deliver my report with immaculate composure, hands loose at my sides, giving my brother, the head of the family, my full attention as I speak.
“Blue Note’s visible operations remain centered on the lounge itself, with occasional extensions into adjacent neighborhoods.
Their enforcement model appears to be favor-based rather than territory-controlled, with little evidence of systematic territorial acquisition or consolidation.
Their primary focus is their neighborhood and surrounding streets. ”
Alexei steeples his fingers before him as he listens. This is nothing I haven’t already reported.
Mikhail rubs his chin in thought.
“While there are many members of the Blue Note crew, the primary players are their enforcers, Saint and Silas, their favor keeper, Ghost, their bookkeeper, Petra, their informants, Kain, Reef, Vail, and Angel, their tech person, William, and their cleanup people, Luca and Orien. There are signs of a recent security upgrade, which I believe can be attributed to Rowan’s new mate.
Rowan himself has not made a public appearance while I’ve been present. ”
I take a deep breath. “They are a group from a broad spectrum of professions and class, but no member of the crew has displayed overt aggression or territorial posturing.”
Mikhail taps one finger on the table. “And what about the tip we received?”
I keep my face neutral. “There’s been no movement that I’ve detected. No positioning, no reconnaissance, no targeting of our corridors or personnel. I was able to infiltrate their secure area, and there’s no evidence we’re even on their radar.”
Mikhail leans forward to study me. “And your source? The one who gave you access to the back rooms?”
“Orien Bellamy is letting me get closer, and I’ve been building relationships with the rest of the crew.” I refuse to allow myself to blush as the memory rises of just how close Orien let me get tonight. “It’s only a matter of time before I’m brought into the inner circle.”
“Your methods are too slow. It’s been a month now, and nothing I’ve heard changes my mind about the danger they present to our family.” As Mikhail takes in my outfit, a faint curl at the corner of his mouth appears. “Perhaps you should show more commitment to the mission and less to the…costuming.”
My jaw clenches at the implication that I’m playing dress-up rather than conducting intelligence operations.
Alexei comes to my defense with a quiet growl. “He’s undercover, Micky.”
The use of the diminutive lands like a soft hand on a shoulder, a reminder of rank and place. Mikhail is our uncle, but Alexei is head of the family. The distinction matters, in this room more than anywhere.
Any sign of disagreement vanishes from Mikhail as he retreats with practiced grace. “Of course. I simply wondered if we might consider alternate approaches. Given the time that’s passed.”
He means given the time I’ve had to produce results. I’ve been embedded for three weeks, with little to show, because I’m beginning to suspect there’s nothing to find.
I remain impassive through the exchange while irritation builds.
I like this outfit. The cream sweater brings warmth to my complexion, and the streamlined pants lend the illusion of height.
If I were still wearing the crop tops, I’d care less, but this outfit is one I would wear in private, when suits weren’t required of me.
I’ve seen others in their casual wear, and it’s not much different, but because I’m an Omega, Mikhail holds me to a higher standard to compensate for, what he calls, my innate weakness.
His condescension, along with the other Vartanian Alphas, have driven me to spend the last eight years proving myself useful to the family.
Eight years proving that my designation is irrelevant to my capacity.
Eight years watching Mikhail’s mouth curl the same way every time Alexei includes me in strategic discussions rather than relegating me to support roles.
“Blue Note’s operational model is complex,” I say, the words measured. “Rushing would be counterproductive.”
Mikhail scoffs. “Your brother coddles you.”
It’s not the first time he’s said it, or something like it, nor is it the first time he’s suggested that my place in the family structure is the result of Alexei’s sentiment rather than my capability. But with the ghost of Orien’s hands on me, it’s the first time they’ve made me question myself.
I do not respond. It’s not my place. Instead, I fold my hands behind my back and wait for the meeting to end.
Alexei sits in silence until the exchange concludes.
“We’ll continue as planned. Weekly check-ins with standard reporting protocols.” He turns to Mikhail. “Unless you have additional concerns?”
It’s not quite a challenge, but close enough that tension hums in the air between them.
Mikhail straightens, adjusting the diamond cufflinks our grandfather had given him. “No additional concerns at this time.”
“Then we’re done.” Alexei stands, concluding the meeting. “Lev, walk with me.”
I turn my back to our uncle and follow my brother from the room, spine straight and composed. No one watching would know how much this exchange affected me.
Mikhail remains seated at the table, the insult not escaping anyone.
In the hallway, Alexei slows his pace to match mine. “You’re doing well. The information you’ve gleaned is valuable, even if it’s not what we expected.”
“It’s just taking time,” I say. “The Blue Note Crew is a tight knit family.”
“Take whatever time you need. Just…” Alexei pauses, choosing his words with care. “Be careful. If the Blue Note is planning to move on us, they’ll be watching for this kind of approach.”
“I will,” I promise.
He claps me on the shoulder, the gesture both acknowledgment and dismissal, and turns down the corridor toward his office.
I continue toward the front door, thoughts already on my next encounter with Orien and acutely aware of how the belief I can be both Lev and Lee is thinner than it was an hour ago.
Thinner than it was yesterday. It will be even thinner tomorrow, when I walk back into the Blue Note and into Orien’s orbit once more.
A loyal brother would turn around right now, go back to Alexei, and admit I’ve been compromised. But if I do, my brother will appear weak, and Uncle Mikhail will use it as leverage to push his plan to wipe out the Blue Note.
Any opposition must be eliminated.
The belief has been drilled into me since birth.
But the Blue Note isn’t the opposition, and I can’t convince myself to pretend otherwise. And I’m beginning to wonder why Mikhail is so intent on destroying it. What secret is he hiding?
I’m playing a dangerous game now, one that threatens far more than my mission at the Blue Note.
Because this has become about more than the family, or the Alpha waiting for me on Thursday.
It’s about the version of myself I become in Blue Note’s dim light. The Omega who kneels because he wants to, not because he has to.
It’s about Lee, who is both more and less real than the man who shares his face.