Chapter 20 - Alexey
The heavy oak door of my home office at the family compound clicks shut behind Tikhon, sealing us inside the one room where strategy turns into action.
Late afternoon light filters through the tall, arched windows overlooking the east gardens, casting long golden beams across the walnut floors. The office is built for a purpose: masculine, restrained, and utterly secure.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line two walls, filled with leather-bound volumes on military history, finance, and coded ledgers that only a handful of people can decipher.
A massive antique desk dominates the center of the room, its surface currently covered with surveillance photos, financial reports, and a half-empty bottle of premium vodka.
On the low table near the leather sofas sit the remnants of lunch: thick slices of seedless rye bread, cold cuts, pickled vegetables, and a platter of smoked fish that Arina has sent up before the meeting.
Tikhon drops into the deep leather armchair across from me, his massive frame making the furniture creak. He pours two fingers of vodka into a crystal glass and slides it across the desk toward me before filling his own.
“To making that bastard bleed,” he rumbles, raising his glass.
“To ending this.” I lift mine in return. The vodka goes down smooth and cold, burning pleasantly on the way.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Thick slices of bread with butter and smoked salmon, the kind of simple, hearty food that fuels long planning sessions. The confrontation at The Garden Room still burns fresh in my mind.
Fadir’s men have dared to show their faces near Anja, near my sister, and near Katya. The image of Anja’s shaken face when she returned to the compound, the way her hands trembled against my chest, keeps replaying behind my eyes.
I want Fadir’s demise so vividly I can almost taste it.
“After what happened today,” I say, setting my empty glass down, “we accelerate. No more measured pressure. We ramp up the attacks on his businesses.”
Tikhon leans forward, elbows on his knees, his dark eyes sharp. “Tell me.”
I spread several documents across the desk.
“His legitimate fronts are already cracking. Three import companies are hemorrhaging money after the latest supplier pullouts. We hit the remaining ones harder... freeze every account we can access, leak internal documents showing mismanagement, and turn his own people against him by making it look like he’s pocketing their cuts.
The charity foundations he uses for laundering?
We expose just enough to make donors run.
Publicly. Messily. I want him looking incompetent and desperate in every circle that matters. ”
“And the underground side?” Tikhon nods slowly, a dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.
“We cut off the last two routes he’s clinging to. Andrei’s team is ready to intercept the next shipment. Make it look like an inside job. We let his remaining loyalists start turning on each other. No direct violence yet. Let him destroy his own network through paranoia.”
I take another sip of vodka, the burn grounding me.
Outside the windows, the estate gardens stretch lush and peaceful, a stark contrast to the calculated violence we are planning.
My mind keeps drifting back to Anja and how she looked when she returned from the café, shaken, but trying so hard to be strong.
The way her hand instinctively moved to her stomach. The child growing inside her is mine. Fadir has tried to claim it with lies. He has sent men to intimidate the mother of my child.
He will pay for every second of fear he causes her.
“I’m envisioning his end,” I say quietly, staring at the surveillance photo of Fadir’s latest hideout pinned to the board.
“Not a quick bullet. Not a clean exit. I want him to watch everything he built turn to ash. Suppliers gone. Money dried up. Reputation in tatters. His own men are questioning whether he’s worth following.
And when he’s finally broken, when he has nothing left, I want him to know exactly who took it all from him—and why. ”
“Personal now.” Tikhon pours us both another measure of vodka.
It isn’t a question.
“Yes.” I meet my brother’s eyes. “He went after Anja today. Not just as leverage against us, but personally. He’s spreading lies that the child is his, that I abducted a pregnant woman.
He’s trying to paint her as damaged goods and me as the villain who stole her.
After everything she’s already survived…
her father’s debts, and Fadir’s own manipulation... he still thinks he can break her.”
“Then we don’t just take his empire. We take his pride. His name. His future. Make sure no one in this city will ever do business with him again, even after he’s gone.” Tikhon’s expression turns menacing.
We spend the next hour refining the plan. Specific targets. Timelines. How to coordinate the financial strikes with the street-level pressure. The vodka flows sparingly but enough to sharpen the edge, not dull it.
Lunch is cleared away and replaced with strong coffee as we map every weakness in Fadir’s remaining network.
By the time we finish, the sun has dipped lower, painting the office in warm amber light. I stand at the window, looking out over the compound grounds where Anja is currently resting in our wing.
“You’ve changed since she came into the picture. The patient's brother is still here… but there’s fire now.” Tikhon rises, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder.
I don’t deny it.
“She’s carrying my child. And she’s become more than the tool I originally planned to use against him. She’s mine to protect. Fadir made the mistake of threatening what belongs to me.”
“Then let’s make him regret it. Thoroughly.” Tikhon nods, respect clear in his eyes.
He leaves me alone in the office, the heavy door closing with a solid thud.
I remain at the window a moment longer, the half-empty vodka bottle and scattered papers a testament to the war we are waging. The slow dismantling of Fadir Klem has always been calculated.
Now it is personal.
I picture Anja’s face, shaken but resilient. The fury that has been simmering since the café incident has crystallized into something colder and far more dangerous.
Fadir wants to play dirty?
He has no idea how thoroughly I will destroy him for it.
***
Fadir’s empire is failing publicly, and the fall is beautiful in its inevitability.
Stock in his legitimate fronts has dropped sharply over the past ten days.
Key allies are defecting after we exposed their own dirty deals through carefully placed leaks.
His once-feared network now looks increasingly desperate as suppliers demand cash upfront, former associates distance themselves in public statements, and whispers spread through the underworld that Fadir Klem is no longer a man to bet on.
The slow, surgical erosion I have planned for months is finally bearing fruit. No dramatic explosions. No bodies in the street. Just steady, relentless pressure that makes him look weak, unreliable, and finished.
I watch it all from my office at the family compound, the satisfaction tempered by something sharper and more personal than simple victory.
Tonight, we will deliver another public blow.
The high-profile charity event is being held at the Grand Ballroom of the city’s most exclusive hotel. I have chosen the venue deliberately. It’s neutral ground, heavy with press and influential guests, the perfect stage for the next act.
Anja stands beside me in the private preparation room, adjusting the drape of her gown in the full-length mirror.
The dress has been carefully chosen. It's a deep midnight blue, flowing silk that skims her body without clinging.
Her pregnancy is now subtly visible with a gentle curve beneath the fabric that only those looking closely will notice.
Her long black hair with its auburn highlights is swept up elegantly, exposing the graceful line of her neck.
She looks radiant. Strong. Mine.
“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.” I step behind her, my hands settling lightly at her waist.
She meets my eyes in the mirror, her gaze steady despite the nerves I can see beneath the surface. “I want to. He needs to see it. I need to see it.”
I nod once and press a kiss to her bare shoulder. My hand slides around to rest briefly over the subtle swell of her stomach, being protective, possessive, and reverent. Then I offer my arm.
We enter the ballroom together.
Heads turn. Cameras flash. The murmur of conversation dips noticeably as we move through the crowd.
Anja plays the role with quiet grace, her posture elegant, her smile soft but genuine when she speaks to the right people.
I keep every touch calculated yet protective.
My hand resting at the small of her back when the photographers close in, guiding her through the room without ever making her feel like a trophy.
She leans into the contact just enough to sell the illusion, but I feel the real trust beneath it.
Across the room, from a poorly lit corner, near one of the side exits, Fadir watches.
He stands half-hidden behind a cluster of his remaining associates, but I spot him immediately. His face is twisted with powerless rage as he stares at us. The color has drained from his skin when his gaze drops to the subtle curve of Anja’s belly beneath the silk.
The message is unmistakable: everything he thought he owned has been taken—slowly, painfully, and very publicly. The woman he tried to trap now stands beside his enemy, carrying his child, while his world burns around him.
I meet his eyes across the distance. Hold them. Let him see the calm certainty in mine.
He knows.
My instincts tell me he is planning something desperate, and that it will involve Anja directly.
That realization infuriates me more than any business loss ever could.
Fadir has already tried to use her past against her.
He has sent men to the café where she is having brunch with Arina and Katya.
Now he is spreading lies that the child is his.
Each new violation stokes the fire that has been building since the moment I pulled her out of that warehouse.
The pregnancy has sharpened my focus to a razor’s edge.
My usual patience now carries a deeply personal fire.
Every late-night strategy session with Anja feels heavier.
Her sharp insights are still invaluable, and she has an eye for patterns in Fadir’s desperate communications that even Andrei sometimes misses.
But her growing vulnerability as the mother of my child makes me want to shield her from the entire world.
I stay one step ahead of Fadir’s moves, tightening the noose with surgical precision: freezing the last of his liquid assets, turning two more key allies with evidence of his betrayals, leaking just enough to make his remaining network fracture from within.
But for the first time, the revenge feels secondary.
What matters most is the fierce need to keep Anja and our unborn child safe.
When the event finally winds down, and we return to the compound that night, the house is quiet. I walk Anja to our wing, my hand never leaving the small of her back. She is tired. I can see it in the slight droop of her shoulders, the way she leans into me more heavily than usual.
In our bedroom, she changes into one of my soft button-down shirts that swallows her frame, then climbs into bed with a quiet sigh. I watch her settle, one hand instinctively resting over her belly even in sleep. The sight does dangerous things to my chest.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, simply watching her breathe.
The line between strategy and genuine care disappeared weeks ago.
What began as a business arrangement, using her as leverage to destroy Fadir, has become something far more profound.
She is the woman who challenges me during strategy sessions, who laughs at Arina’s teasing at family dinners, who carries my child with quiet strength even while her past tries to pull her under.
I reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her. My hand lingers, then moves lower to rest gently over hers, where it protects our baby.
Fadir’s empire continues to fall. The public humiliation at tonight’s event will spread through the right circles by morning. His face in the surveillance footage is twisted with rage and disbelief, and it plays on repeat in my mind.
He is planning something desperate. I can feel it.
But as I watch Anja sleep, peaceful for the moment, the revenge that had once consumed my focus now feels like background noise to the far more important truth.
She is mine to protect.
Our child is mine to protect.
I will tear apart anyone who tries to take them from me.
The slow dismantling of Fadir Klem will continue tomorrow—methodical, relentless, surgical.
But tonight, in the quiet of our room at the family compound, with my hand resting over the woman carrying my future, I allow myself to feel the full weight of what this has become.
Not just war.
Family.