Chapter 17
Lev
I’m that fucking gone, and I can’t even find it in myself to be terrified of that.
Black coffee, two sugars. Drinks it standing at the kitchen window, looking at the gardens like she's mapping escape routes she'll never use.
She hums something classical—Tchaikovsky, I finally identified it—when she thinks no one's listening.
The sound does something to my chest I don't want to examine.
At this point, everything she does has some sort of effect on me.
I should look into it before I find myself going mad.
When she's nervous, her hand goes to the back of her neck. When she's lying, she touches her collarbone. When she's scared, she presses her thumb into her palm hard enough to leave crescents in her skin.
Forty-two steps from her room to the kitchen. I counted. Forty-two opportunities to intercept her, corner her, press her against any of six different walls and find out if she'd scream or moan or both.
I've mapped every possibility. Played out every scenario in my head until I know them better than my own security protocols.
This is insane.
I know it's insane.
I don't fucking care.
Because I want to know everything. Want to catalog every breath and heartbeat until I can predict her movements before she makes them. Want to own her so completely she forgets she ever existed as something separate from me.
And then I want to break her open like a geode and see what's inside. Pull out every secret, every fear, every dark thought she's too scared to acknowledge. If she shatters in the process? Good. I'll put her back together the way I want her.
Mine. Remade. Perfect.
"Boss."
Mikhail's voice cuts through fantasies I shouldn't be having during a business discussion.
I sharply look up from my laptop—where I've been watching Valerie dust the library for twenty-three minutes instead of reviewing the Italian contracts that are the entire fucking point of this meeting.
"What?" I growl.
His eyes narrow. He's been with me fifteen years. Long enough to read the signs. "I said the Italians want to renegotiate terms. Claiming market conditions have shifted since the agreement."
"Fuck their market conditions." I close the laptop before he can see the security feed on the screen. "The terms stand. They pay what they agreed to pay, or they can explain to their boss why they lost the best weapons pipeline on the East Coast."
"They won't find another supplier."
"I know." I lean back, forcing my attention to the actual problem in front of me instead of the one thirty feet away, dusting picture frames. "Which means this is a test. They're seeing if I'll bend."
"And when you don't?"
"They’ll think they can take me and I'll remind them why people don't fuck with me."
Mikhail shifts his weight. Arms crossed. That look on his face—concern wrapped in loyalty. "You've been distracted lately, boss."
It's not a question. I raise a brow.
"I'm handling it."
"Are you?" He doesn't push. Doesn't need to. The evidence is sitting right here—me watching security feeds during business prep, losing focus mid-conversation, spending more time tracking one girl than running an empire worth half a billion dollars.
In my world, distraction kills.
But I can't stop.
Can't stop watching her move through my house like she belongs here. Can't stop filing away the small sounds she makes as she works. Can't stop imagining what other sounds I could draw from her if I stopped watching and started touching.
I can’t fucking help this obsession. This need.
"The Italians arrive in an hour," Mikhail says finally. "Where do you want them?"
"Sitting room. Keep it casual." I stand, rolling tension from my shoulders. Business. Focus. This is what I'm good at—reading people, calculating angles, knowing exactly how hard to push before someone breaks.
The same skills I'm using on Valerie, just in a very different context.
"And Mikhail? When they push on the renegotiation—because they will—we handle it my way."
"Understood." He heads for the door, pauses. "Boss. Whatever you're planning with the girl. Be careful."
I don't answer.
Because careful stopped being an option the moment I decided not to put a bullet in her brain.
The Italians arrive precisely on time.
Marco Ricci leads them—mid-forties, expensive suit, cologne so strong I can smell it from across the room. Trying to project confidence while his eyes track exits and armed men.
He's nervous. Good.
Nervous men make mistakes.
"Lev." He extends his hand, smile too wide. "Thank you for seeing us."
I shake briefly. His palm is sweaty. "You said it was urgent."
"Yes. We've been reviewing the agreement, and given current market volatility—"
"No." I cut him off before he can build momentum. "The agreement stands as written."
His smile tightens. "Of course, but surely you understand that circumstances have changed. Shipping costs have increased substantially. Competition has driven prices down in certain sectors. We're simply asking for a modest adjustment to reflect—"
"You're asking me to take less money because you fucked up your cost projections." I keep my voice conversational. Reasonable. "And you thought coming here in person would make me more sympathetic."
"We're not asking for charity, just—"
"You're asking me to bend. To let you renegotiate terms we both signed because market conditions—which existed when we made the deal—suddenly matter more than your word."
Marco's jaw tightens. I see the calculation in his eyes—how far can he push before this goes wrong?
Not far enough, apparently.
"Lev, be reasonable—"
"I am being reasonable." I lean forward slightly. "Reasonable would be honoring your contract. What you're doing is insulting my intelligence and wasting my time. And I don't appreciate either."
"We're simply pointing out economic realities—"
"That doesn't exist in our agreement." I stand slowly. Deliberately. "You signed a contract. You'll honor it. Or you'll find another supplier and explain to your boss why you destroyed the relationship that's been keeping you competitive for three years."
He stands too, face flushing red. Authority challenged. Pride wounded.
Stupid.
"Now wait just a goddamn minute—"
"No. You wait." I step closer, and his men tense, hands moving toward weapons. "You came into my house. Tried to fuck me on a deal we both agreed to. That's disrespect, Marco. And in my world, disrespect has consequences."
"To hell with those, Volkov, sit down, let’s talk.”
I hit him.
Fast, brutal, my fist connecting with his jaw hard enough to snap his head back and send him stumbling into the chair behind him.
His men move—reaching for guns—but Mikhail and my team are already there. Weapons out, trained on the Italians before they can clear leather.
"Don't." Mikhail's voice is flat. Final.
They freeze. I almost wish they didn’t. It’s not a bad idea to work out my current obsession and sexual frustration with some shed blood.
I grab Marco by his collar and haul him upright. Blood streams from his nose where my ring caught it. Eyes wide with shock—didn't think I'd actually do it.
Everyone makes that mistake once.
"You want to renegotiate?" I slam him against the wall hard enough that picture frames rattle down the hallway. "Let's renegotiate."
Because fuck it, I need to shed some blood.
I beat him methodically. Not in rage—rage is sloppy, inefficient. This is calculated violence. Every strike designed for maximum pain and damage without killing.
Break his nose—cartilage cracking under my knuckles, blood spraying.
Split his lip—teeth cutting through soft tissue.
Shatter his cheekbone—the bone giving way with a wet crunch that's satisfying in a way I stopped questioning years ago.
He's begging within ninety seconds. Trying to say the deal is fine, terms are acceptable, anything to make it stop.
I don't stop.
Because this isn't about the deal anymore. This is about the message. About making sure every Italian who hears this story knows exactly what happens when you disrespect Lev Volkov.
And maybe—just maybe—because I'm frustrated and obsessed and taking it out on Marco's face is easier than admitting I'm losing control over a girl who's probably working for my enemies.
When his face is hamburger, and he's choking on his own blood, I let him drop.
He hits the floor hard, gasping, broken.
"Get him out." I address his men without looking at them. My knuckles are split, bleeding. Marco's blood covers my hands, my shirt, probably my face. "And tell your boss that the next person who tries to fuck me will not leave breathing."
They scramble to grab Marco, dragging him toward the exit. Blood trails across my floor in a pattern that will need cleaning.
And fifteen feet away, pressed against the wall, between picture frames she was probably dusting, Valerie stands frozen.
Blood spatters decorate her white uniform—tiny red dots across her chest and shoulder. Her face is white. Lips parted. Eyes wide with shock.
But she's not running.
And when our eyes meet, I see it again.
That flash of something underneath the terror. Something dark she doesn't understand yet. Something that looks at violence and doesn't just see horror—sees something else entirely.
There you are, little viper.
My insides soar at that. My muscles stiffen, and I growl softly under my breath.
I should let her go. Should walk away. Should give her space to process what she just witnessed.
Fuck that.
I move toward her deliberately. Slowly. Giving her every opportunity to run.
She doesn't.
Just watches me approach with those wide brown eyes, breathing fast and shallow, frozen like prey that knows it's caught.
I stop close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that she can smell Marco's blood mixing with my cologne and sweat.
"Scared?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She nods. Can't seem to form words.