Lev
Iwake up with a woman in my bed for the first time in five years.
Not just any woman. Valerie.
She's curled against my chest, small body tucked under my arm, wearing nothing but my shirt that she grabbed at some point during the night. The white fabric swallows her frame, sleeves falling past her wrists, hem riding up to reveal the curve of her ass.
Mine.
The possessiveness that slams through me is irrational. Dangerous. The kind that makes men stupid and gets them killed.
But lying here watching her sleep—dark hair spread across my pillow, lips slightly parted, one hand curled against my chest—I want to keep her exactly like this. Claimed. In my bed. Wearing my things.
She stirs, making this small sound that's half sigh, half whimper, and burrows closer.
The sunlight streaming through windows says it's past 7 AM. Late for me. I'm usually up by six, already coordinating shipments and reviewing security reports.
Instead, I stayed in bed watching her breathe.
Her eyes flutter open. Confusion first, then recognition when she sees my face. Fear flickers through her expression before something darker takes over—arousal mixed with terror in that twisted combination I'm addicted to.
"Morning," I murmur, hand sliding down her back to rest on her hip.
"Morning." Her voice is rough from sleep. "What time is it?"
"Late." I pull her on top of me in one motion. She gasps as she straddles my waist, my shirt riding up to expose everything underneath. "Shower. Now."
"I should —"
"No." The word comes out flat. Final. "You shower here. With me."
She opens her mouth to protest. I silence it with a kiss that turns her arguments into soft sounds of surrender.
My bathroom is all marble and chrome, glass shower big enough for six people. I turn on the water and strip while it heats, then pull her shirt over her head.
The sight of her naked in my space does things to me that aren't rational.
I back her against the tile wall under the spray. Not rough like last night. Slower. Methodical.
"I'm going to learn your body." My hands map every curve, every dip, cataloging what makes her breath hitch. "Every spot that makes you gasp. Every way to take you apart."
"Lev—"
I drop to my knees and hook her leg over my shoulder before she can finish the thought.
Put my mouth on her.
She cries out, hands flying to my hair, gripping hard enough to hurt.
I take my time. Learning what makes her hips jerk forward. What makes her thighs tremble. The exact pressure and rhythm that make her voice go high and desperate.
She tastes like arousal and mine, and I could stay here memorizing her responses indefinitely.
When she's close—thighs shaking, fingers pulling my hair, breath coming in pants—I stand and lift her in one motion.
Pin her against the wall.
"When you come this time, it's with me inside you." I line myself up, no barrier between us this time. "Understand?"
She nods frantically, too far gone for words.
I thrust inside her.
And fuck me, but she’s so tight and wet and perfect, and the feel of nothing between us—just her wrapped around me, no barriers, completely claimed—rewires something in my brain.
I fuck her slowly. Deliberately. Watching her face as I work her higher, learning every expression, every gasp.
"Ty moya," I murmur against her neck. You're mine. "Ne tol'ko zdes'. Vo vsyom." Not just here. In everything.
"Yes—" Her nails dig into my shoulders. "God, yes—"
"Say it properly." I slow down, making her work for it. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours!" It comes out strangled. Desperate. "Lev, please, I'm yours—"
I increase the pace, angle to hit that spot inside her that makes her eyes roll back. "Then come for me. Show me who you belong to."
She shatters around me. Whole body going rigid, clenching so tight I nearly lose control. Her nails break skin on my shoulders, and she screams my name like it's the only word she knows.
I follow her over. Bury myself as deep as possible and come harder than I have in years, marking her in the most primitive way possible.
Mine. Completely mine.
Afterward, I clean us both with efficient hands. Wash her hair, run soap over her body, take care of what's mine.
She lets me. Stands still while I handle her, doesn't flinch when my hands linger on her throat or the marks I left on her thighs.
I wrap her in a towel and find clothes—another one of my shirts because seeing her in my things satisfies something primitive, and jeans from her room that I had retrieved.
She dresses while I watch, every movement memorized.
"Stay in my wing today." I button my own shirt, eyes still tracking her. "Don't leave without telling me first."
"Lev, I have responsibilities—"
"Elena can handle Mila's morning routine." I cross to her, tilt her chin up. "This morning, you stay where I can see you."
She searches my face, then nods. "Okay."
Good.
Mikhail finds me in my office after lunch.
"Boss. Got results on that burner number trace."
I look up from shipment manifests. "And?"
"Routes through multiple proxies. Endpoint traces to Brooklyn. Signature's consistent with small-time debt collection operations in that area. Could be O'Rourke's network, could be any of a dozen operators running protection rackets."
Small-time debt collectors squeezing a dead man's family. Exactly what Valerie told me. Nothing worth my immediate attention when I have Armenians testing borders and Colombians renegotiating terms.
"Conclusive?" I ask.
"No. Just patterns. Without more data, it's speculation."
I grunt and close the report. "Keep monitoring. Passive surveillance only. Anything changes, you let me know."
Mikhail hesitates. "Boss, if someone's running an asset inside your house—"
“Conclusive?” I ask.
“No. Just patterns. Without more data, it’s speculation.”
I close the report. “Then we treat it like a live wire anyway.”
Mikhail hesitates. “Boss, if someone’s running an asset inside your house.”
“We are not calling it an asset until it proves it can survive the word,” I say, voice flat. “We are calling it a possibility.”
He waits.
“Double the internal sweep. Staff communications, device checks, and access logs for the last fourteen days. I want every other staff verified. Quietly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put a watcher on Valerie. Not to babysit her. To watch who watches her. No contact, no intimidation. Just eyes and a report.”
Mikhail nods once and leaves.
I pull up security feeds instead of reviewing the rest of his data.
Find Valerie in Mila's room. She's reading to my daughter, and Mila is curled against her side, completely trusting.
The image makes something tighten in my chest—possessiveness, satisfaction at seeing what's mine exactly where I want it.
Whatever small-time operator is squeezing Valerie's family can wait. Bigger problems demand attention.
The Bratva family dinner is tonight.
It’s where Bratva Pakhans and members gather from time to time to talk and, mostly, show off.
I tell Valerie to get ready.
She looks at me, confused. "For what?"
"Bratva family dinner. You're coming."
"Lev, I can't just—"
"You can because I say you can." I move closer, crowding her space. "I want everyone to see you with me. To know you're mine. That means if anyone looks at you wrong, they answer to me."
Terror flickers in her eyes, but underneath it, there is also heat. "Wear the black dress I sent to your room."
She nods and disappears to change.
Forty minutes later, she emerges, wearing a simple black dress that hits mid-thigh — elegant and understated. Her hair is down in soft waves. She looks beautiful and a little frightened.
Exactly how I want her.
I keep my hand on her thigh the entire ride to Manhattan. Possessive. Claiming. She trembles slightly but doesn't pull away.
At Russo's, I keep my hand on her lower back as we walk inside. Making it very clear she's with me.
The private room is full. Everyone is here.
"Lev." Daniil Karpov stands. "You're late."
"Had business." I pull out Valerie's chair, then take the seat beside her. "Everyone, this is Valerie Novak."
"Welcome, Miss Novak." Daniil says.
"Thank you." Valerie's voice is steady despite trembling hands under the table. I find her hand, squeeze once. A claim, not comfort.
Dinner proceeds. After that, we move to the games table. Business is discussed in careful language: territory disputes, shipment schedules, revenue projections.
Valerie stays quiet, listening. I can see her memorizing names and faces, logging connections.
Halfway through, Pavel Moroznik, half drunk on vodka—leans forward.
"So, Lev. The girl. She your new whore or something more permanent?"
The table goes silent.
Valerie goes rigid.
"Careful." My voice stays conversational. "She's with me. Disrespect her, you disrespect me."
"No disrespect." His smirk says otherwise. "Just curious what makes this one special enough for family dinners. She spread her legs better than—"
Valerie's hand tightens on mine. And I feel it—that shift. Steel underneath fear.
She turns to look at Pavel directly. Eyes cold.
"I don't know what others you're referring to," her voice drips with sweet venom, "but maybe if you spent less time obsessing over who's spreading their legs and more time focusing, you'd actually notice everyone else on this table wiping the floor with you."
The table goes dead silent.
His face turns purple. "How dare you—"
"She dares because she's right." I lean back. "Your game tonight is shit, Pavel. In fact, have always been. Maybe address that instead of my personal life."
Daniil turns to him, trying to stifle his laughter alongside others at the table. "Pavel, you threw the first punch. Don’t flinch when it’s returned."
Pavel sits back, fuming but silenced.
And Valerie calmly takes a sip of wine like she didn't just eviscerate a made man in front of the entire family.
That flash of darkness. The viper I've been hunting.
The need to fuck her right here on this table is overwhelming.
The rest of the evening goes on. Valerie answers questions from others with unexpected calmness. She's nervous—I can sense it in how she keeps reaching for my hand—but she gets through it.
We leave around midnight. Valerie leans against me in the car, exhausted.
"You did well tonight," I say. "The thing with Pavel. That's exactly what I wanted to see."
She looks up. "I shouldn't have said that. I should have stayed quiet—"
"No. Never hide that part of you. The steel underneath. That's what I want."
"Why?" Genuine confusion. "Why do you want that?"
"Because it's real." I tilt her chin up. "Because most people hide their darkness and pretend to be something they're not. But you—you have steel underneath all that fear. And I want that part of you."
She doesn't argue.
Back at the house, I take her to my room. She follows without protest.
We get ready for bed. She borrows my shirt again. I let her because seeing her in my things satisfies the possessiveness that never quite settles.
In bed, she turns to face me.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Depends."
"Your wife. Mila's mother. What happened?"
Everything goes cold. "Why?"
"Because Mila asked if I thought her mama was watching from heaven. And I didn't know what to say."
I should shut this down.
But the question is reasonable, and she needs to understand what happens to people who threaten what's mine.
"Her name was Katya." The words come out flat. Clinical. "We were married six years. Had Dmitri first, then Mila."
"What happened?"
"Someone made a move on our territory. Sent men to my house while I was handling business across town." The memory plays behind my eyes with perfect clarity. "They broke through security. Got inside."
I pause, studying Valerie's face in the darkness. She's listening intently, not interrupting.
"I got the alert ninety seconds after the breach. Drove like hell. Still took twelve minutes." Twelve minutes that cost everything. "By the time I arrived, they were gone. Katya and Dmitri were dead."
"Lev—"
"I found them in our bedroom. Katya was on the floor between the bed and the wall where she'd tried to run.
Two bullets—back of the head, execution-style.
Clean. Professional." My voice stays flat, emotionless.
This is just facts. Data. "Dmitri in his crib.
They shot a two-year-old in his fucking crib.
Three times to make sure he was dead. Not wounded. Dead."
Valerie makes a sound but doesn't speak.
"Mila was in the corner. Sitting in a pool of their blood.
It had spread across the floor, and she was just sitting there, covered in it.
Brain matter on her pajamas. Her mother's brain matter.
Her brother's." I pull Valerie closer, not for comfort but for possession.
"Her voice was gone from screaming and wailing for so long while they bled out around her. "
"Oh God—"
She was supposed to be too young to remember, but she does. The nightmares prove it. Something imprinted on her mind while she sat there waiting for someone to come. Now, she looks at the world as if it's full of monsters.
"Because it is," Valerie whispers.
"Yes." I stroke her hair, the motion more possessive than gentle. "That's why I protect what's mine. That's why threats don't get second chances. That's why anyone who comes after the people I care about ends up in pieces."
I don't mention the seven men I found. Don't mention the warehouse where I kept them chained for days. Don't mention the recordings I made, or the boxes I sent to their families afterward containing parts of them.
Don't mention that I still have trophies in a safe. Reminders.
She doesn't need to know those details.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly.
We lie there in silence. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest—nervous energy, processing what I told her.
After a while, her breathing evens out. Sleep pulling her under.
I stay awake longer, staring at the ceiling, replaying the memory of finding them. Of Mila's screams. Of the moment I realized I'd failed to protect what was mine.
It won't happen again.