Chapter 3
THREE
ALEXANDER
The engine hums as I guide the car along the winding road to the university, city lights slicing through the tinted glass in streaks.
My mind refuses to settle. Restless—that’s what I’ve been for a week straight.
It’s unfamiliar, irritating. All my life, I’ve lived by control.
Discipline. Order. Every decision calculated, every move deliberate, just as my father demanded.
I was born to structure, molded to perfection, raised never to falter.
Born here in the States, then sent to Russia at nine, my fate was already drawn in blueprints I didn’t design but perfected regardless. At ten, I began Bratva training. It was tradition, expectation. Petrov’s bloodline was never meant for softness.
For seven years, I studied and trained there, leaving only on holidays to visit the United States and Thailand.
At sixteen, I returned to the United States, navigated high school and university with practiced efficiency, and graduated summa cum laude in finance and international business.
At my grandfather’s insistence and tradition, I completed one year of mandatory military service in Russia.
Afterwards, I moved to Thailand, where my mother placed me into the family resort headquarters.
Two years of corporate work in Thailand polished the experience I needed before I returned to the States to earn my MBA in international finance.
By twenty-seven, degree in hand, I had followed the map drawn for me to perfection.
It has always been like that, life plotted like a chessboard, and each move anticipated. Nothing wasted. Nothing unscripted. Even when I briefly allowed myself the indulgence of the Bratva life in Russia after completing my MBA, it was not chaos; it was observation, execution, and control.
Now at twenty-nine, I sit as CFO of my father’s company, a role I never wanted but took anyway because of my mother.
I never wanted to live in my father’s shadow, or in the hollow bond he and I never shared.
My father has always been a man of severity, never one to show affection.
His attention was Anton’s and mine to fight for, but we never bothered.
Maksim, the youngest, earned it—maybe because he came years later, maybe because tragedy forced my father to notice him.
What happened to Maksim at ten nearly destroyed him.
Perhaps guilt turned my father into a parent. Too late for me. Too late for Anton.
But I didn’t need him. None of us did. Our mother was enough; she’s our anchor, our warmth, the only proof we had of family beyond bloodlines and names.
So yes, my life has always been measured. Every step precise, every achievement stacked exactly where it should be. At twenty-nine, I know what I want, and I take it. Always. Nothing distracts me. Nothing unsettles me. Nothing gets past my control.
Except him.
The boy with hair like sunlight tangled into curls, and a face sharp yet delicate, marred with freckles like someone painted him in constellations.
He unsettles me. From the first moment, I knew something in me had shifted, something unwanted, unplanned.
His beautiful eyes, wide and too heavy with the kind of grief only time and cruelty can carve into a person struck me harder than any blade could.
I know trauma when I see it. It clings to people.
I have seen men broken by it in training, in service, on the streets, and in my brother, Maksim.
Lucas wears it too, though he tries to hide it, and he does a great job with it.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t want. And yet the urge to take him, to pull him into my world, chain him to me, burns through me with a force I do not recognize. It’s constant, consuming, maddening.
But for the first time in my life, I hold back. For the first time, I do not move the piece forward.
Because something in him seems fractured, and I want to understand the shadows behind his eyes.
With a sigh, I pull into the parking lot. The engine rumbles low before cutting off, leaving me in silence.
The exhibition. Maksim’s big night. Again.
My little brother has been painting since he could hold a brush. And he isn’t just good, he’s brilliant. Critics eat his work alive, foam at the mouth, call him a prodigy. He breathes color, lives in the chaos of oils and turpentine. And, annoyingly, he deserves every compliment.
Me? I hate these events. The fake handshakes, the shallow conversations, the thinly veiled passive aggression of rich people trying to outdo one another. All of them pretending they understand brushstrokes and palettes when they wouldn’t know art if it bled in front of them.
But if I don’t show, Maksim said he would kill me. So here I am.
The dashboard lights up—Ashley.
I press the button on the wheel, her crisp voice filling the car.
“Mr. Petrov. You asked me to keep tabs on the boy. Lucas. I’ve got something.”
My hand drags through my hair. My throat feels dry.
“Go on.”
“There isn’t much. He lives in a small apartment near the riverbank. Old train station area. He shares it.”
“Shared?” My tone sharpens.
“With a Guy named Tyler. Works as a chef in the university dining hall.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “Their relationship?”
“I can’t confirm. Nothing suggests it’s romantic. From what I’ve seen, they’re close. I caught them communicating in sign this morning, at Lucas’s workplace.”
Close. That single word gnaws at me. Too close? Closer than I want to imagine?
I swallow it back, try to keep my voice even. “And personally? Anything?”
Ashley hesitates. “He’s private. Very private. Hard to pin down. But I’ll keep digging.”
“Do that.” The irritation cuts sharper than I meant it to.
There’s a pause, then her tone dips, almost cautious.
“One more thing, sir. He’ll be working the event tonight. As one of the servers.”
My brow arches. A low hum slips from me before I can stop it. Here?
For the first time tonight, I feel something other than irritation. Something heavier. Sharper.
I end the call without another word.
I don’t believe in fate. Life isn’t ruled by chance—it’s ruled by money, power, control. That’s all.
And yet… Lucas keeps crossing my path, Like the world is testing me, daring me to see if I can take something fragile, claim it, and hold it without shattering it.
And I have never wanted to take a dare so badly.
* * *
The gallery hums with low conversations, soft jazz trickling through hidden speakers.
Canvases line the white walls, some impressive, most forgettable.
Maksim’s work, though, is different. Darker.
He always gravitates to deep blues, bruised purples, and charcoal blacks.
He paints people, too, but rarely clear and blurred faces, as if seen through smoke or shattered glass.
I stand beside Anton, who looks about as engaged as a marble statue.
Arms folded across his chest, eyes narrowed in studied indifference.
My older brother—the perfect heir—draped in a black Brunello Cucinelli suit like he was born in it.
Silent, cold, reliable. At thirty-one, he doesn’t waste words, doesn’t waste breath; he never has to.
He’s the only one I look up to. The only one who really knows me.
We’d kill for each other. Die for each other. That’s the bond.
“That one is tolerable,” Anton mutters at last, chin flicking toward a canvas of cracked porcelain faces staring at each other across a void.
I grunt. That’s as much commentary as I have to give.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” a drawl cuts in from behind. Familiar and amused.
I turn, one brow lifting. Viktor.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his easy smirk carved into place, though it never quite reaches his eyes. My cousin. My best friend, if I could call anyone that.
“He threatened you, too?” I ask.
Viktor’s grin widens. “Said he’d burn down my garage if I didn’t show.”
Anton snorts—the closest thing to a laugh I’ve heard from him all night.
“Not bad,” I say dryly. “He told me and Anton he’d slit our throats in our sleep.”
Speak of the devil. Maksim appears out of nowhere, wearing that bright, charming smile he wields like a weapon.
“There you are,” he crows, clapping Viktor on the back. “Took you long enough.”
“Threats work fast,” Viktor replies with an eye roll.
Maksim grins, but it falters the instant Anton speaks.
“Tristan called,” Anton says, still studying a painting of wilted roses. “He won’t be making it tonight.”
Maksim freezes. His smile dies at once, and I see a flicker of hurt in his eyes before it morphs into one of anger.
I blink curiously.
Tristan is our family’s lawyer. His father owns one of the biggest firms in the country and has worked with ours for decades.
When he retired, Tristan had to return to the States to take over, and he’s been handling our business with efficiency ever since.
Smart, polished, always collected. If there’s anyone we trust, it’s him.
“Why didn’t he tell me himself?” Maksim demands. His voice, usually smooth, cracks sharply at the edges.
For once, Anton looks away from the canvas, pinning Maksim with that stern, unreadable gaze of his. “Why the hell would I know that?” he says, tone flat, bored, carrying more weight than any shout could.
Maksim bristles. “You don’t have to be a bastard about it.”
“Why are you annoyed?” I ask curiously.
He glances at me, then away. “Nothing. Forget it.”
A lie. Clear as glass. But I don’t push, because my attention shifts. Across the room, weaving silently through the crowd with a tray in hand, is Lucas.
He’s dressed simply: black shirt, pressed slacks, nothing remarkable—and yet, against the gilded backdrop of chandeliers and suits, he stands out.
His blonde curls catch the soft light, his pale, freckled skin a stark contrast against the dark fabric.
When those wary, beautiful eyes of his sweep the crowd, searching, cautious, I feel something pull tight in my chest.
He looks tired. Guarded. Like the last place he wants to be is here.
“Earth to Alex,” Viktor mutters, waving a hand in front of my face.
I blink and drag my gaze away. “What?”
“Ah,” Maksim drawls, lips curling into a grin like he’s stumbled onto a secret. “The server, the blonde Kid looks familiar, doesn’t he, dear brother?”
“He’s not a kid,” I grit out, shooting him a glare.
He doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he leans closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “One of each student’s paintings will be up for auction tonight. And you, Alex, will bid on mine.”
“I don’t need any more of your paintings,” I reply dryly. “I already have enough of them cluttering my place.”
“No,” he muses, smug, “you think you don’t.” Then his gaze shifts past my shoulder, something knowing flickering in his expression. A slow smile curves his lips. “But this? This isn’t just a painting.”
The back of my neck prickles. Instinct. I know better than to ignore it.
I follow the pull before I can stop myself and find him again.
Lucas.
He’s threading through the guests like a shadow, careful not to touch anyone. The tray in his hands doesn’t waver, but his grip on it is too tight, fingers white against the polished metal.
He pauses mid-step, tray balanced neatly on one palm, the other hand lifting toward his ear, adjusting something small. A hearing aid. The gesture is quick, habitual, but my eyes follow it. And then his gaze lifts.
And lands on me.
It’s like gravity tilts. My chest stutters, ribs tightening as though my own heart just misfired.
Fuck.
The rest of the room, its voices, the clatter of glasses, the shifting bodies, all of it collapses into silence. Blurs. Empties. Until it’s only him. Only us.
His eyes widen, and shock drains the color from his freckled skin. Then I see the Panic flicker across his delicate features, sharp and breakable all at once, as if I’ve stolen the ground from under his feet. But it isn’t me he’s afraid of. No. It’s this.
This pull.
This tether that snaps tight between us, raw and undeniable. He feels it—I can see it in the way he freezes, in the way his breath catches like he’s been caught trespassing in his own body. He feels it, and it terrifies him.
My mouth curves, it’s a ghost of a smile, but one meant for him and him alone. He doesn’t know it yet, but I already own this moment. Already own him.
The tray tips, one glass sliding toward the edge. The light fractures against it as it teeters, just before his quick fingers snatch it back. The save is clean, but I see the tremor in his hand.
Even across the room, I taste it. His unease, sharp like iron. His uncertainty, rich and intoxicating. He doesn’t understand what this is, and neither do I.
But the one thing is for sure: I want to make him mine.