Chapter 10 - Alexey
Fadir’s counter-move is predictable, desperate, and poorly executed.
It makes me laugh.
The report comes in just after midnight. Two of my clubs, only mid-tier operations on the east side, have been hit by a handful of hired thugs. Broken bottles, smashed furniture, a couple of bouncers roughed up, but nothing fatal.
No shots fired. The message is obvious.
Fadir is trying to look strong, to show he can still bite back even as his suppliers pull away and his public image starts to fray. He thinks a little noise and property damage will make him appear dangerous again.
It only makes him look sloppy.
I sit at the marble island in the penthouse, laptop open, reviewing the security footage on a split screen while the gas fireplace casts a low, steady glow across the room.
The city lights glitter beyond the windows, indifferent to the small war playing out in the shadows.
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t call for immediate retaliation. That isn’t how this is done.
Instead, I begin precise cuts.
First, the financial pressure. I freeze three of his key accounts through backdoor access we’d established weeks ago, including one legitimate import business and two shell companies.
Not enough to trigger alarms with the banks, just enough to make payrolls stutter and suppliers start asking questions.
Then the leaks: carefully chosen intel dropped into the right ears among his own people. Whispers that Fadir is losing control, and how his “strong move” on the clubs is nothing but amateur theater.
I turn his suppliers against him, one by one, with anonymous tips about delayed payments, quality issues, and the growing risk of federal scrutiny.
Nothing dramatic. Just enough friction to make them hesitate, then withdraw.
The goal remains the same. It’s all about slow and painful erosion. Making him look weak and unreliable in front of the very men he needs to survive. Let his empire crumble brick by brick while he watches, powerless.
I am halfway through drafting the next leak when soft footsteps sound from the hallway.
Anja appears in the living area, still wearing the oversized t-shirt and a pair of jogging shorts she’d changed into after the art auction earlier that evening. Her hair is loose now, falling over one shoulder as she pads barefoot toward the island. She carries two mugs of tea into the quiet room.
“You’re still working,” she says, setting one mug beside my laptop. Not a question. Her eyes flick to the screen, taking in the footage and the open ledgers without hesitation.
“Fadir made a move tonight. Weak. Predictable. We respond precisely.” I accept the tea with a nod.
She slides onto the stool across from me, pulling the second laptop closer. That’s the one loaded with the archive of emails she’d secretly copied from Fadir’s devices during their last tense weeks together. “Show me.”
Reaching across the island, I opened a bottle of Vodka and poured some into my tea.
We work side by side for the next two hours.
The penthouse is silent except for the faint click of keys and the occasional sip of tea.
Anja leans over the laptop, auburn-streaked strands slipping forward as she scrolls through the increasingly sloppy, desperate messages Fadir had sent in the months before everything unraveled.
Her insights come sharp and unfiltered.
“Look at the wording here,” she says, tapping the screen.
“Three weeks ago, he was still cockywith ’secured new routes, and suppliers locked in.
’ Now the language is shifting. Shorter sentences.
More repetition of ‘handle it’ and ‘don’t question me.
’ He’s panicking. See how he keeps mentioning Katya indirectly?
He’s grasping, trying to make the personal angle work because the business side is slipping.
And this one...” she highlights a paragraph ”...
he uses the same phrase he used on me when he was gaslighting: ‘You’re overreacting.
’ He’s losing control of the narrative even with his own people. ”
Her fire is addictive in a cutthroat sort of way. I can appreciate it.
She isn’t just reading emails; she is dissecting the man, pulling apart the patterns of a predator who has once tried to cage her. Every observation tightens the noose another notch. I listen, committing the details to memory, already calculating how to weaponize the panic she has identified.
“Good eye,” I say simply, keeping my tone professional.
No extra warmth. No lingering eye contact that could blur lines.
“The repetition of control language confirms he’s feeling the pressure.
We amplify it by leaking one of these phrases through a supposed insider.
Make his own crew start questioning whether he’s still capable of leading. ”
She nods, a small spark of satisfaction in her green eyes, before she banks it.
We continue decoding, cross-referencing dates with the courier patterns she’d spotted on the surveillance drive.
Her long hair falls over one shoulder again as she leans closer to the screen, and for a moment, I register how naturally she fits into these late-night strategy sessions.
The quiet rhythm of two minds working toward the same goal. The way the penthouse feels less empty with her presence across the island. The subtle shift in her posture is less guarded and more engaged.
I shut the observation down immediately.
Later, as the city lights begin to dim toward the earliest hours of morning, Anja sits back and asks the question that has been building behind her eyes for days.
“How do the Sokolovs actually draw the line?” Her voice is quiet but pointed.
“Between necessary force and needless cruelty. You say you protect your own, that it’s control, not chaos.
But I grew up hearing stories about Bratva collectors who didn’t stop.
They were ruthless.. They enjoyed the fear. So where’s the difference? Really.”
I set my pen down and meet her gaze directly. Transparency builds the trust we need for the long game. She is no longer just leverage. She is a willing participant, and that trust kept her insights flowing cleanly.
“Necessary force protects the structure,” I answer honestly, tone detached but clear.
“When someone like Fadir pushes into our territory, tries to use women as pawns or destabilize what we’ve built, we respond.
Financially first. Then isolation. Only violence when it’s the cleanest, most contained option.
We don’t terrorize for sport. We don’t break homes to send messages or prey on the vulnerable because it makes us feel powerful.
That’s needless cruelty. It creates enemies, draws attention, and weakens the foundation.
The code is simple: protect family, protect the women and children under our roof, maintain stability.
Break that, and everything rots. Fadir enjoys the game. We end it efficiently.”
She listens, and I am aware of her eyes searching my face for more answers.
I see the fractional relaxation in her shoulders.
The same small shift that happens whenever I treat her as a true partner rather than a prize to be won or a victim to be sheltered.
That trust is growing slowly and is useful for the plan.
It makes her more keen and more invested.
Still, the small shift does unwelcome things to my chest. A quiet pull. A dangerous warmth that has no place in this arrangement. I shut it down immediately, locking it away where no one can touch it
She is still reeling from betrayal, job loss, and the terror of her past. No one should carry ghosts that make every touch suspicious.
I refuse to become another man who takes advantage of her vulnerability. No matter how naturally she fits into these late-night sessions or how her fire sharpens the blade we are using against Fadir.
The pretend relationship remains purely business.
Fadir has to watch us appear to grow closer while his world crumbles piece by piece. The public appearances, calculated touches for the cameras, and the illusion of something real.
Nothing beyond that is allowed.
The invisible line between us stays firmly drawn.
“We have enough for the next phase. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, or later today, we tighten the financial screws further.” I closed the laptop and pushed back from the island.
Anja stands as well, gathering the empty mugs.
Her hair catches the low light one last time as she turns toward the hallway.
She pauses at the edge of the living room, glancing back at me with those green eyes.
Her gaze seems thoughtful, still guarded, but no longer as brittle as the night I pulled her from the warehouse.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For answering straight.”
“Get some rest,” I nod once.
She disappears down the hall toward the guest suite, the soft click of her door echoing in the quiet penthouse.
I remain on the island a moment longer, staring at the closed laptop. Fadir’s weak counter-move has already been neutralized. The slow dismantling continues exactly as planned.
Anja Kuzmin is proving to be more useful than I could have ever imagined. Her insights, her fire, the way she leans into the work without hesitation, and how it all accelerates the erosion in ways I haven’t fully anticipated.
Yet as I switch off the pendant light and head toward my own suite, I remind myself again of the boundaries.
The age gap. Her recent wounds. The ghosts she carries. The honest nature of every interaction.
No matter how naturally she fits beside me in the quiet hours of the night, or how that small shift in her trust tugs at something deeper than strategy.
The war against Fadir is progressing.
For the moment, that is enough.
***