Chapter 8 Alexei
Alexei
The cold shower does nothing to solve my problem.
I stand under the spray and think about anything except Mila sleeping a few rooms over in clothes that show off way too much skin. Anything except how she tasted yesterday. How she felt under my body on that couch.
My cock throbs despite the frigid water beating down on my shoulders. Three days trapped with her, and I’m wound so fucking tightly that even ice can’t numb the need.
I wrap one hand around myself and stroke once. Twice. The image of Mila’s face when she came apart around my fingers floods my brain. Her hazel eyes going unfocused. Her mouth falling open on a gasp that echoes in my ears.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
My pace increases as I remember the sounds she made, and the way her body moved against mine. How tight she was around my fingers. How much tighter she was around my—
My phone rings on the bathroom counter.
I ignore it and keep stroking. I’m close; I just need another minute to—
The phone rings again, and I slap the tile with an open hand.
“Goddammit.”
I shut off the water and grab my phone with my free hand. Dmitri’s name flashes across the screen. Of course, it’s him. My brother has the worst timing.
“What?” I answer, not bothering to hide my irritation.
“Good morning to you, too. Boris just sent an update on the Andreev situation.”
I reach for a towel. “And?”
“Three more cameras were discovered on the property. All in areas you checked, which means they were installed after our last sweep.”
The information cuts through my arousal faster than the cold shower did.
Duty wins. It always does.
I dry off quickly while Dmitri continues to brief me.
“How recently do you think they were installed?” I ask.
“Within the past forty-eight hours, based on the timestamps on the recordings. It’s too obvious. Whoever’s watching isn’t hiding anymore; they want the family to know.”
I pull on jeans and a T-shirt while I work through what he’s telling me. “Recommendations?”
“Boris thinks you should move her again. The safe house is too close to his place of residence, and it was supposed to be temporary anyway. Get her somewhere more secure until we identify who’s behind this.”
“The countryside estate?”
“That’s what I’d suggest. It’s more defensible and isolated. Your security team can control access without worrying about neighbors or having to discern a suspicious vehicle from random traffic.”
I run a hand through my wet hair and consider the logistics. Moving Mila again will only prove her point that I’m controlling every aspect of her life, but keeping her here when someone’s escalating surveillance is foolish.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” I tell him.
“Good. Keep me updated.”
He hangs up, and I already know how Mila will react when I tell her we’re moving. Yesterday’s fight is still fresh. She already thinks I’m using protection as an excuse to keep her prisoner.
This will only confirm her worst assumptions about my motives.
I smell her before I see her. Coffee and something sweet that doesn’t belong here.
I find her in the kitchen wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder. Her hair is pulled back in the messy ponytail she favors lately. No makeup, just natural beauty that makes my recently ignored arousal stir all over again.
Fuck, my balls are going to be killing me in a few hours.
She’s making coffee and doesn’t acknowledge me when I enter. Just continues to measure grounds.
“Morning,” I try.
“Is it?” She doesn’t look up.
“You’re still angry.”
“What gave it away? The fact that I won’t look at you or the fact that I’m imagining pouring this scalding coffee over your head?”
I lean against the counter and watch her work. “Pulling away yesterday was the right call.”
“I didn’t ask for your justification.”
“I’m giving it anyway.”
She finally looks at me with hazel eyes full of fury. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and pretend it was noble. You wanted me. I wanted you. Everything else is just you deciding what’s best for me without asking what I want.”
She pours coffee into two mugs before she adds, “Just like you decided to confiscate my keys and phone. Just like you decided that I couldn’t attend classes in person. Just like you’re deciding every aspect of my life right now.”
I accept the mug she shoves at me. “Someone has to make smart decisions.”
“There it is again. That patronizing tone that assumes I’m either too stupid or too naive to understand danger.”
“I never said you were stupid.”
“You didn’t have to. Every action you’ve taken since you brought me here screams that you think I need to be managed like a child who can’t be trusted with her choices.”
I take a long drink of coffee to avoid responding. She’s not wrong; I have been making decisions for her. But there’s no alternative.
“I have a paper due Friday,” she declares after a moment. “For my international business law class. Professor Daughtry doesn’t accept late submissions, regardless of circumstances.”
“You have internet access,” I point out.
“It’s not that simple. The paper is on real companies that live in legal gray zones. I need sources I can’t find online.”
“You’re researching companies like ours.”
“I’m researching the legal frameworks that allow criminal organizations to operate businesses without attracting federal prosecution.
” She makes eye contact over the rim of her mug.
“Fascinating stuff. The number of shell corporations and offshore accounts required to maintain plausible deniability is impressive.”
“Is that what you think we do? Hide behind shell corporations?”
“Isn’t it?” She sets her mug down and crosses her arms. “Both our families own half a dozen ‘legitimate’ businesses each that share board members with known criminal enterprises. And somehow, despite multiple investigations, nothing ever sticks because the paper trail is too convoluted to follow.”
I watch her face while she talks. The way her eyes brighten when she’s discussing something that interests her. How her demeanor changes from angry captive to engaged academic.
She’s smart. Really fucking smart. And she’s been paying attention to details most people miss.
“You’ve done your homework,” I acknowledge.
“I obviously can’t even begin to implicate my father, so I’ve been looking into yours. Your family’s business practices make excellent case study material.”
“Glad we could contribute to your education.”
“Don’t deflect. I’m trying to understand how someone can run an organization like yours and still sleep at night. How you justify the violence and corruption by pointing to the legitimate businesses you maintain as cover.”
The question isn’t accusatory; she genuinely wants to understand the contradiction. Most people either accept what we do without question or condemn it outright. Mila wants to pick apart the logic and see how the pieces fit together.
“You want the truth?” I ask.
“That would be refreshing.”
“The legitimate businesses aren’t just a cover.
They employ hundreds of people who have nothing to do with our other operations.
Employees with families who depend on those paychecks.
I can’t speak for your father’s operations, but our shipping company moves legal cargo ninety percent of the time.
The import-export businesses facilitate real trade relationships. ”
“And the other ten percent?”
“It funds everything else. It keeps our people paid, our borders protected, and the feds off our backs.”
She gives me a thoughtful nod. “So, you’re arguing that the legitimate enterprises serve a dual purpose. They provide legal income while also creating infrastructure for illegal operations.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“And you don’t see the moral problem with using honest workers as a cover for criminal activity?”
“I see it. I just don’t have a better solution that keeps everyone fed and protected.”
This conversation has gone somewhere more honest than I usually get with people outside the organization.
“Your paper,” I begin after a moment. “What’s the thesis?”
“That criminal enterprises operating in developed economies require sophisticated legal structures to survive long-term. That the real power doesn’t come from violence or intimidation but from understanding how to exploit gaps in regulatory frameworks.”
“And your conclusion?”
“That organizations like yours are more vulnerable to legal prosecution than physical threat, and the best way to dismantle criminal empires is through forensic accounting and international cooperation between law enforcement agencies.”
I laugh despite myself. “So, you’re writing a paper on how to destroy families like ours.”
“I’m writing a paper on effective strategies for combating organized crime. If that happens to apply to your family’s business model, that’s just academic analysis. My father. … Well, he will just have to understand.”
“You realize this academic analysis could get you killed if the wrong people knew you were conducting it.”
Her face goes serious. “Is that a threat?”
“You’re sitting in my kitchen discussing how to dismantle my brother’s organization. Most people would consider that dangerous behavior.”
“Are you most people?”
“No, but I’m also not the only person who would find your research interesting. The families watching your father’s house would love to get their hands on a detailed analysis of Kozlov business practices written by someone with your intelligence and access.”
She hadn’t considered that angle. I can see the realization moving across her features as she understands why her academic interests might make her more valuable as a target than just being Leonid Andreev’s daughter.
“You think someone’s watching me?” she asks quietly.
“I think someone’s watching your family, but you’re the one asking questions and writing papers that could provide intelligence value. That makes you more interesting than your father’s shipping manifests.”
“So now I’m not just a bargaining chip. I’m a potential intelligence source.”
“Welcome to the life you keep insisting you don’t want any part of.”
She picks up her mug and drinks without responding. When she speaks again, her voice has lost some of its earlier anger. “What am I supposed to do? Stop pursuing my education because it might make me a target? Pretend I’m not curious about how this world operates just to stay safe?”
“Just be careful. Understand that knowledge has consequences in our world. And maybe trust that when I make decisions about your safety, I’m not doing it to control you; I’m doing it because you’re researching things that could get you killed.”
“I don’t need you to protect me from my brain.”
“Maybe not, but I’m going to anyway.”
We’re back to our fundamental disagreement. She wants freedom to pursue her interests without constraint. I want her alive, even if it means restricting what she can do and where she can go.
My phone vibrates with a text from Boris. I read the message and curse.
“What?” Mila asks.
“Security team detected unusual surveillance activity around this property within the past hour.”
“Which means what?” I can tell she already knows the answer based on the way she’s groaning.
“This location is compromised. We need to move you somewhere more secure. Dmitri and I have a plan in motion.”
“Move me where?”
“My countryside estate. It’s more isolated and has a better security infrastructure. Harder to surveil without being detected.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Of course. More isolation. More control. Exactly what I need.”
“Mila—”
“Don’t. Just tell me when we’re leaving so I can pack whatever belongings you’ll permit me to take.”
I want to make her understand that every decision I make comes from genuine concern rather than a need to dominate her life, but explaining that would require admitting things I’m not ready to say out loud.
Instead, I just tell her, “Pack for an extended stay. We leave in two hours.”