Chapter 4 Alexei
Alexei
The man tied to the chair won’t stop begging—and it pisses me off.
“Please, Mr. Kozlov. I can get you the money. Just give me two more weeks.”
I cross my arms and fall back against the concrete wall of the warehouse. Grigory Belov. A mid-level enforcer who thought he could skim from our protection payments without anyone noticing. He’s wrong.
“Two weeks.” I check my phone like I’ve heard this script before. “That’s what you said three months ago. Then two months ago. Then last month.”
“This time is different. I swear on my mother’s grave—”
“Your mother’s alive in Tver.” I take a slow step closer, letting him feel each one. “Try a better lie.”
Boris, a local police captain who is on our payroll, stands behind the chair with his arms crossed. He’s been with my family since I was sixteen. He knows how I prefer to handle situations like this.
“Left hand,” I say, still scrolling. Command, not conversation.
Grigory screams before Boris even touches him. “Wait! Wait! I have information. About the Novikov family. They’re planning something big.”
“The Novikovs are always planning something big. That’s not valuable information.”
“But this is different. They’ve been meeting with someone from Moscow’s financial elite. Someone with government connections.”
Now that gets my attention. I hold up a hand, and Boris stops.
“Names.”
“I don’t know the name. But I saw them meeting at that club on Tverskaya Street. The one with the private rooms upstairs.”
“When?”
“Three nights ago. Maybe four.”
I pull out my phone again and text one of our intelligence contacts. Within two minutes, I have confirmation that Grigory’s story checks out. The Novikovs have been unusually active in areas they don’t normally operate.
“Your information bought you one week,” I tell Grigory. “Get me my money by then, or Boris breaks both hands. Understand?”
He nods frantically, still crying.
“Get him out of here.”
Boris cuts the zip ties and drags Grigory toward the exit. I stay behind in the empty warehouse, checking messages while I think about what Grigory said. The Novikovs expanding their territory means we need to respond. We can’t let them think we’re weak.
My phone goes off with a text from Dmitri.
How did it go?
Fine. Got useful intel about the Novikovs.
Good. Come by the house when we’re back from our honeymoon. I want to hear about it.
I pocket my phone and head for my car. The drive back into the city gives me time to think. About territory. Power. About the endless chess game that keeps this city mine.
But my mind keeps drifting back to last night. To the garden. To Mila Andreeva pressed against that wall, coming apart around my fingers.
Fuck.
I’ve had plenty of women. Beautiful women who knew what they were doing. Women who understood the rules and never expected more than I was willing to give.
But none of them ever looked at me the way Mila did. Like she hated wanting me. Like her body and her brain were at war, and neither side was winning.
The memory of how wet she was, and how tight around my fingers, makes my cock stir. I adjust myself and focus on the road. This is ridiculous. I’m thirty-three years old. Too old to be obsessing over a woman who made it clear she wants nothing to do with our world.
Except she didn’t say no last night. Didn’t push me away or tell me to stop. She grabbed my shoulders and rode my hand like she couldn’t get enough.
I pull into the parking garage of my building and take the elevator up to my penthouse. The place is how I left it this morning. Clean. Organized. Empty.
Too empty.
I pour three fingers of whiskey and stare down at my city. It’s full of people making decisions that will shape their futures. Smart decisions. Stupid decisions. Decisions they’ll regret.
Mila decided six months ago to walk away from our arrangement. Smart, probably. Safer for her to finish her education and stay out of our world.
But she showed up at the wedding anyway. Walked right into the lion’s den wearing that green dress and looking at me like I was something dangerous she couldn’t quite resist.
I down half the whiskey and set the glass on the table. Pull out my phone and stare at the blank screen. I haven’t heard from her since I left that note in her purse. No angry text telling me to fuck off. No polite message declining my invitation.
Nothing.
I know she has my phone number from our previous encounter. I gave it to her then, in case she changed her mind about marrying me. Which means she’s either thrown the note away or she’s thinking about it. Trying to decide if showing up would be the worst decision of her life.
It probably would be.
But I don’t think it will stop her.
I grab my keys and head back down to the garage. If I’m wrong, I’ll look like an idiot who set up a romantic evening for a woman who never showed.
If I’m right, I’ll finally get answers to the questions that have been eating at me for six months.
The safe house sits in a quiet neighborhood, the kind where no one asks questions about who comes or how long they stay. I bought it three years ago under a shell company. I keep it maintained but mostly empty. Perfect for meetings that need to stay off the books.
Or for seducing stubborn women until they finally admit they want me.
I arrive two hours before midnight and start setting things up. The place needs work. Dust covers everything. Windows haven’t been opened in months. The place smells stale and neglected.
I strip the covers off furniture in the main room and open windows to let the cool night sweep through. Find candles in a drawer and set them on the mantle because the overhead fixture is too bright to set the mood properly.
I pour myself another whiskey and survey my work. Not bad. The candlelight makes it feel less like a safe house and more like somewhere I could talk her into staying.
She still won’t come.
Of course, she won’t. She’s smart and educated and determined to escape this world. Showing up here would be the opposite of everything she claims to want.
But at 11:47, I hear a car pull up outside.
My pulse kicks up despite my best efforts to stay calm. I tell myself it’s one of my men checking locks. A neighbor. Anyone but her.
I stay seated on the couch, glass in hand, and wait. Footsteps on the walkway. A knock on the door.
Definitely not one of my men.
“It’s open,” I call out.
The door opens inward, and Mila steps inside. She’s wearing jeans and a fitted black sweater, and her chestnut hair has been pulled back in a ponytail. Minimal makeup.
And completely unsure of herself.
“You came.” I don’t bother hiding my satisfaction.
“Don’t sound so smug about it.” She closes the door behind her but stays near it. Escape route within reach.
“Why not? I left you a note with no explanation, and you showed up anyway. That’s worth being smug about.”
“I came because I want answers.”
“Sure, you did.”
“I’m serious, Alexei.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “What was that yesterday? In the garden. What did you want from me?”
I set my glass down and stand. “You know what I wanted. Your body made that clear.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.” I walk closer, watching her try to decide if she should back away. She doesn’t. “You felt it, too. That thing between us. The thing you’ve been running from since the day we met.”
“I haven’t been running from anything.”
“Liar.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then looks around the room instead. Takes in the candles. The open windows. The bottle of wine I opened twenty minutes ago, just in case.
“You set this up for me?”
“Don’t read too much into it. I just didn’t want you to think I bring women to empty warehouses.”
“Do you? Bring women to empty warehouses?”
“Only the ones who owe me money.”
She almost smiles. Almost. “You’re insane.”
“You already said that yesterday. Got any new material?”
“How about this: You’re an arrogant bastard who thinks leaving cryptic notes in women’s purses is an acceptable method of flirtation.”
“Worked, didn’t it? You’re here.”
“I’m here because I want to understand what you want from me.” She moves farther into the room, putting distance between herself and the door. Progress.
“That’s the second time you’ve asked that question. Makes me think you already know the answer and you’re just stalling.”
“Maybe I want to hear you say it.”
“Why? So you can pretend to be shocked and leave with your virtue intact?”
“My virtue is none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business now, Zaika.”
She tilts her head and says, “Maybe I came here to tell you to stay away from me. That I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing.”
“Then why are you still standing here? Why didn’t you tell me that from the door and leave?”
“Maybe I’m curious,” she offers with an unsure shrug.
“About what?”
“About why you’re so determined to pursue me. You could have any woman in Moscow. Women who would die to be seen with you. Women who understand your world and won’t question it. So why me? Why pursue someone who doesn’t want to be part of this life?”
Good question. One I’ve been asking myself since last night.
“Maybe I like a challenge.”
“Or maybe you just don’t like being told no.”
“That too,” I concede with a few nods.
She shakes her head but moves closer anyway. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still here. Just like yesterday.”
“This is crazy,” she whispers. “I barely know you. Everything about this is reckless and stupid and distracting. I have a presentation on Monday that I should be preparing for instead of standing here with you.”
“Then leave. Go home. Prepare your presentation. Pretend this never happened.”
She doesn’t move. Just stands there staring up at me with those hazel eyes that shift between gold and green depending on how the candlelight catches them.
“I should,” she finally replies. “I really should.”
I reach out and cup her face in my hands. “Tell me what you want, Mila. Not what your father wants. Not what you think you should want. Tell me what you want.”
Mila leans into my touch, and the gesture is so trusting it makes something in my chest constrict. She bites her bottom lip, and my eyes drop to follow the movement.
Jesus, I want to bite that lip. To taste her again. To see if she’s still as sweet as I remember.
“Want to know what I want, little bunny?”
She draws in a shaky breath. “Do I even have a choice?”
My grin sharpens. I lean in until my mouth brushes her ear. “No, Zaika. You don’t get choices with me. You get what I give you. And you’ll take it, because your body already knows it wants me.”
Her breath catches, and her pupils dilate. But she doesn’t back away or slap me or do any of the things a smart woman should do when a dangerous man says something like that.
Instead, she leans the slightest bit closer like she can’t help herself. And that’s when I know without a doubt that I’m right.
Mila Andreeva wants me.