Lev
She checks her phone seventeen times during the drive home from Apex, and I count every single one.
Not obvious about it—quick glances when she thinks I'm focused on Mikhail's report, subtle shifts to see the screen. But I notice everything about Valerie Novak now.
And right now? She's scared of that fucking phone.
Pull up her phone records—both devices. The smartphone shows normal patterns. Nothing suspicious.
The burner is different.
Fifteen incoming calls in the past seventy-two hours. All from that same untraceable number Mikhail identified weeks ago. The one that routes through multiple proxies, encrypted to hell, connected to whoever the fuck is running her.
She hasn't answered any of them.
That should reassure me. Should prove she's done with whoever sent her here, whoever threatened her family into this situation.
Instead, it makes my jaw clench hard enough that my teeth ache.
Because if she's not answering, it means they're getting desperate. And desperate people do stupid, violent things.
I close the laptop and pour vodka. Drink it standing at the window overlooking the grounds where my men patrol in careful patterns. This fortress I built to keep threats out, and somehow one walked right through the front door wearing a maid's uniform and big brown eyes.
I need to confront her and finally get to the bottom of what’s happening.
But my mind supplies an image—Valerie's face when that phone buzzed at the club. The way her hand flew to it, then away, like touching it burned. The terror that flashed across her features before she smoothed it away.
She's trapped in something. That much is obvious.
The question is whether I give a shit enough to help or just eliminate the problem entirely.
I drain the vodka, set the glass down harder than necessary.
Tomorrow. I'll confront her tomorrow when I'm thinking clearly instead of with my cock.
Except when I head toward the hallway, I hear it.
Screaming.
Mila's screaming.
No!
I'm moving before conscious thought catches up, instinct and five years of nightmares propelling me down the corridor toward my daughter's room.
The door's open. Valerie's already there, kneeling beside Mila's bed, trying to calm her.
"—not real, sweetheart, you're safe, I promise you're safe—"
But Mila's thrashing, small hands clutching her blanket so tight her knuckles are white, face blotchy with tears and terror. "Mama! Mama, wake up! Please wake up!"
The same nightmare. Always the same fucking nightmare.
Her mother's body on the floor. Blood spreading. Dmitri in his crib. The men with guns. All of it seared into a brain too young to process that kind of trauma.
I move to the bed, and Mila sees me. Reaches for me with desperate hands. "Papa—Papa, I saw them again—"
"I know, Cielo." I lift her, hold her small, shaking body against my chest. "I know. But it was just a dream. Just a bad dream."
"It felt real." Her voice breaks on a sob. "It always feels real."
Valerie's still kneeling beside the bed, and I see wetness on her face. She's crying too, quietly, like my daughter's pain is her own.
I have no idea how to react to that.
"Can you tell us about the dream?" Valerie's voice is gentle, careful. "Sometimes talking about it helps make it smaller."
Mila shakes her head against my chest. "I don't want to. It's too scary."
"That's okay." Valerie reaches out, strokes Mila's hair with tentative fingers. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. But we're both here now. Your papa and me. And we're not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Mila's breathing starts to even out. The shaking subsides into occasional tremors. She's exhausting herself, adrenaline crash pulling her toward sleep despite the fear still lingering.
I sit on the edge of her bed, keep holding her. Valerie settles beside me—close enough I feel her body heat, smell that lavender scent that's become familiar.
"Sing the song," Mila whispers. "The one Mama used to sing."
My throat closes. I can barely remember Katya's voice anymore, let alone the lullabies she sang. Five years is long enough to fade even the sharpest memories.
But Valerie starts humming. Soft, melodic, some Russian lullaby I recognize from childhood. Where the fuck did she learn that?
Mila's eyes drift closed. Her grip on my shirt loosens. Within minutes, she's asleep—real sleep this time, not the nightmare-plagued kind.
I carefully lay her back down and tuck the blankets around her small body. Turn on the nightlight she still needs, and back away slowly.
In the hallway, Valerie leans against the wall like her legs won't hold her.
"How did you know that song?" My voice comes out quieter than intended.
She looks up, eyes still wet. "My father used to sing it to me as a child. I thought—I thought maybe if Mila heard something her mama might have sung to her, it would help."
Something shifts in my chest. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.
Thoughtful. She was being thoughtful about my daughter.
I move closer, crowding her against the wall. Not threatening, just... close. Needing proximity in a way I don't want to examine.
"She's having them less," I say. "The nightmares. Since you came, they've decreased."
"Really?" Hope lights her face, genuine and unguarded.
"Really." My hand comes up, cups her face. She leans into the touch instinctively. "You're good with her, Valerie. Good for her."
"She's easy to love." The words come out simple, honest. "She's just this sweet, brave little girl who's been through hell, and all she wants is to feel safe. How could I not love her?"
The honesty does something to me.
Cracks something open that's been sealed shut since I found Katya's body, since I held my dead son, since I realized love makes you vulnerable and vulnerability gets you or people around you killed.
But Mila's thriving. Laughing again. Talking more. Clinging to Valerie like she's safety incarnate.
And maybe—maybe that's worth the risk.
"Come on." I pull her down the hallway, not toward her room but toward the main stairs. "There's something I want to show you."
She follows without question, and that trust does something to me too.
Downstairs, I lead her through corridors she's cleaned a dozen times. Past the formal rooms where I meet with other Bratva families. Past the study where I handle surface business.
To the west wing offices, where the real work happens.
"This is the legitimate side." I unlock a door, flip on the lights. "Real estate holdings, import/export companies, construction firms. All legal, all profitable, all boring as fuck."
She steps inside, eyes wide. The office is sleek—glass and steel, computers displaying property portfolios and shipping manifests. Nothing illegal, nothing that would raise flags with authorities.
"You run all this?"
"Mikhail handles day-to-day operations. I oversee strategy, acquisitions, expansion." I pull up files on the nearest monitor. "We own sixty-three properties across the tri-state area. Twelve construction companies. Six import firms that move everything from furniture to electronics."
"That's... massive."
"It's cover." I close that file, open another. "But it's also real. Employs over two thousand people. Generates enough revenue that the other side funds itself without drawing attention."
She's looking at the screen, genuinely interested. Asks intelligent questions about revenue streams, property values, and expansion strategies. Not pretending to understand, but actually understands.
Smart. She's fucking smart when she's not busy being terrified.
We spend an hour going through files. I show her the organizational structure, explain how legitimate businesses interface with less legitimate operations, and point out which companies are pure cover and which actually turn a profit.
She absorbs it all, asks questions that prove she's tracking the complexity.
"Why are you showing me this?" She finally asks, looking up from a shipping manifest.
"Because you're part of this now." The words come out easier than expected. "Part of my world. And I want you to understand it."
"Your world." She repeats it slowly. "The world where people get dragged out of nightclubs bleeding. Where you come home covered in blood. Where armed men patrol your house like it's a military compound."
"Yes." I don't apologize for what I am. "That world. The one you walked into when you agreed to spy on me."
She flinches.
"But also this world." I gesture at the monitors. "Legitimate business. Building something that lasts. Providing for my daughter's future." I move closer, back her against the desk. "The world I'm letting you into because Mila loves you. And because I want to trust you."
"Want to?" Her voice is small. "But you don't."
"Not completely." Honesty seems important right now. "You're still hiding something. Still scared of whoever keeps calling. Still lying about parts of your story."
Tears well in her eyes.
"But I'm choosing to believe the important parts are real." My thumb brushes her cheek. "The way you care about Mila. The fear when you thought I'd hurt your family. The relief when I touch you instead of threatening you." I lean closer. "Those parts I believe."
"They are real." She's crying now. "Everything I feel, that's real. I swear it's real."
I want to believe that.
The realization should terrify me.
Mikhail walks into my office a week later, face grim.
"Boss, we need to talk."
I know that tone. That's his 'you're fucking up, and I'm going to tell you about it' tone.
"Make it quick."
"You're getting sloppy." He doesn't sugarcoat it. "Distracted. You missed the Armenian situation escalating because you were showing Valerie the import manifests. Nearly lost the Ricci deal because you were too busy explaining organizational structure to notice he was testing you."
My jaw tightens. "I'm handling it."
"Not anymore, it doesn’t look like it, boss.
" He steps closer, voice dropping. "Because from where I'm standing, you're letting a woman we know is a spy deeper into operations every day.
You're sharing information that could destroy us.
And you're doing it because your daughter smiles at her and she's good in bed. "
"Watch it."
"I'm your Vor, Lev. My job is to tell you when you're about to fuck yourself." His eyes are hard. "And right now? You're about to fuck yourself. That girl is still hiding something. Still getting calls she won't explain. Still lying about who sent her and why."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because Mila's thriving." The words come out harsher than intended. "Because my daughter laughs now. Talks. Doesn't wake up screaming every night. Because Valerie's the first person since Katya who's made this house feel less like a fucking mausoleum."
Mikhail's expression softens slightly. "I get it, boss. I do. But you're vulnerable right now. And vulnerable men make mistakes that get them killed."
"Noted."
"That's it? Just noted?"
"What do you want me to say?" I turn to face him fully. "That I'm being stupid? That I should terminate her and move on? That I'm risking everything for sex and my daughter's happiness?"
"Are you?"
Yes. Probably. Almost certainly.
"I don't know anymore." I pour vodka, don't offer him any. "But I'm not stopping. Not yet."
He shakes his head but doesn't argue further. Just leaves with a warning. "When this blows up—and it will blow up—don't say I didn't warn you."
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone with the truth.
He's right. I'm sloppy, distracted, making choices with my cock and my heart instead of my brain.
But I can't stop.