Chapter 5
FIVE
ALEXANDER
The numbers blur across the screen—projected profits, investment returns, quarterly forecasts. All neat, precise, dependable. My approval is the final stamp that turns numbers into movement, millions into reality. Clean, efficient. Like clockwork.
I lean back in my leather chair, the skyline spread out beyond the glass walls. The city hums faintly below, a reminder of noise I’m far above. It’s always been easy for me to compartmentalize—work in its box, life in another, emotions locked away in a place so deep they may as well not exist.
At least, until him, Lucas.
His voice still lingers in my head, softer than I imagined, raw like it had been scraped from somewhere he’d buried for years.
The way his lips shaped words he wasn’t supposed to give me, the shock in his eyes when they slipped free.
I’ve replayed it every night since the auction, every time I close my eyes.
I should have dismissed it, the way I dismiss everything that doesn’t matter. But I can’t.
I don’t want to.
A sharp knock cuts through the thought. Ashley steps inside, a slim stack of folders balanced in her arms. She always moves quietly, as though mindful not to disrupt me.
That’s why I keep her; she doesn’t take up space.
She’s been my personal assistant for years, even before I got my Job as the CFO for Pavel Investment.
“Mr. Petrov,” she says softly, setting the folders down. “Quarterly projections for Pavel Investments. And the updated portfolio analysis for the Daltons’ acquisition. The board meeting is set for Thursday at ten.”
I flip through the papers without seeing a single figure. None of it matters. Not compared to the image still haunting me.
My jaw flexes.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says carefully, and something shifts in her tone. “I found out more about Lucas.”
Finally.
I straighten in my chair, the sterile numbers forgotten. “Go on.”
She flips open her smaller notebook. “He’s been Deaf since he was fifteen. It happened suddenly. No one knows the exact cause—he doesn’t talk about it. And mute, too. From what I gathered, he never speaks.”
Except he did with me…That night in the bathroom, he forced words out. Why me? Why then?
Ashley continues, “His mother lives in a trailer park in Connecticut. She had him when she was still a teen. No one knows who his father is. He cut ties with her after he turned eighteen.” She pauses, then glances at me before adding, “Though, I did hear he still sends her half of his income every month. Nobody knows why.”
Half of it? Why?
Ashley hesitates, then goes on, her voice lower. “I spoke to one of his coworkers. She said Lucas doesn’t like being touched… at all. She thinks he might have been abused as a child, judging by how he reacts sometimes.”
My chest tightens. That look in his eyes at the bathroom after I had grabbed him … it wasn’t just hesitation. It was recognition. Fear carved into muscle memory. Did I make it worse for him?
“Anything else?” My voice comes out sharper than intended.
Ashley shakes her head. “No. Nothing significant.”
I rub at my temple, the documents on my desk blurring together until they may as well be blank. My mind isn’t here. Hasn’t been for days.
Ashley clears her throat, soft but pointed, the way she does when she’s about to say something I’d rather ignore.
“Your mother asked me to remind you about dinner tonight. Seven sharp. She was… quite specific.”
I almost sigh. Of course. The weekly performance at the estate, everyone seated at that endless table under my mother’s watchful eye.
Ashley doesn’t move. She studies me in that discreet way she always does, gaze lingering on the tension in my jaw.
“You seem… preoccupied, Mr. Petrov”
Preoccupied. That’s one word for it. Obsessed would be closer. Consumed, maybe.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, flicking a hand to dismiss the thought before she can press further.
She hesitates, then tilts her head. “And how’s the private sign language class going?”
That stops me.
“Slow,” I admit, then after a beat, “but… good. Better than nothing.”
Her mouth curves into the faintest smile. “Slow means you’re still moving forward.”
I nod, though the truth bites harder. Standing there while he scribbles on scraps of paper or his phone, watching him struggle to make me understand—every second of it feels wrong. I want to meet him where he is. To erase that barrier.
Ashley straightens, professionalism snapping back into place. “I’ll confirm your attendance for dinner.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me alone with the silence and the restless hum of the city beyond the glass.
But my mind is nowhere near the city. It’s caught in a loop of pale freckles, wide eyes, and the way his gaze burned when it locked with mine.
* * *
The gates glide open without hesitation as my car approaches.
The security guard nods, recognizing the license plate.
The Pavel estate stands just beyond, three stories of sleek, modern architecture softened by the subtle Thai-inspired touches my mother insisted on.
My mother’s roots are stitched carefully into every corner—warm lantern-style lights and delicate carvings along the entry pillars.
The tires crunch over gravel as I roll up the long curve of the drive. By the time I reach the entrance, two staff are already waiting. One moves for the door, but I wave him off, stepping out with my jacket slung over my shoulder. I’m late.
Inside, the familiar scent hits first—lemongrass and something faintly floral, my mother’s touch. The marble floors gleam beneath soft chandelier light, and the walls are decorated in a perfect balance of modern wealth and old money.
“Welcome, Mr. Alexander,” a server murmurs as I pass.
I nod, already heading toward the dining room.
The low hum of conversation filters out before I even reach the double doors.
When I step inside, the entire family is already seated.
My father sits at the head of the table, posture straight as a ruler, dark hair streaked with silver but neatly combed back.
He wears authority like a second skin, and I hate how much of his face I see when I look in the mirror.
The same jaw. The same blue eyes. His blue eyes.
My mother sits to his right, her dark brown hair pinned up with a golden clasp, diamond jewelry glinting against smooth skin.
Her emerald green silk blouse brings out the warmth in her sharp gaze.
There’s affection there, yes, but underlined with an unspoken authority.
She rules this house as much as my father does.
Maybe more. She’s smiling, but the moment her eyes land on me, the smile tightens.
“Alex,” she chides gently, “Late again?”
“Traffic,” I mutter, sliding into my seat.
The table stretches too long for five people, but the servers fill it anyway, as they move around quietly, placing dishes with practiced precision.
Anton, my older brother, doesn’t bother lifting his head, fingers scrolling over his phone, his silence louder than anything else. Maksim, on the other hand, leans back in his chair, a grin already in place.
“Thought you forgot we existed,” he drawls, raising his glass in mock salute. “Or maybe you’re too busy perfecting the whole mysterious businessman act.”
I don’t bother looking at him. I just reach for the water, ignoring the jab.
Dinner begins without ceremony. My father steers the conversation immediately, as he always does—toward business: construction, new investments, and expansion into the European sector.
Anton listens, quiet and dutiful, giving his occasional clipped responses.
Maksim pokes at his food until the talk turns to something more colorful, like the possibility of opening a winery in Italy.
Then he perks up, finally interested. I should be listening.
Should be calculating. Should be the perfect son and CFO.
But my mind drifts.
“Don’t ever grab me again.”
Lucas’s words replay, small but sharp, angry, and trembling. The soundless voice I keep hearing. The look in his eyes as his hands shook, typing fast, furious. The stumble of his step before I caught him. The heat of his body under my hands.
It clings. It gnaws. It consumes me.
“Alex.”
My mother’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp but not cruel. Always precise. I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at my untouched plate.
“Is everything alright?” she asks, eyes fixed on me, seeing too much as always.
“Fine.”
Her gaze lingers, searching. Then she offers me one of her knowing smiles. My mother—lovely, strict, warm in ways that only sharpen the edge of her expectations. The only one I can tolerate.
“Distracted,” Maksim mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. His grin widens. “Bet it’s not work keeping you up at night.”
I snap my gaze toward him. “Mind your business.”
He chuckles, satisfied, while Anton only watches me—silent, observant, unreadable.
My father finally sets down his utensils. His eyes lock on me, cold and assessing, his voice low but commanding.
“You are the CFO of my investment company, Sasha,” he says, using my Russian nickname like a chain around my throat. “The youngest CFO across all three of my businesses. I know how brilliant you are. I’ve seen how the company thrives under you.”
The room stills. Even Maksim knows when not to laugh.
“My father is a Bratva,” he continues, voice hardening. “But don’t mistake me for one, I left that lifestyle. I built the Pavel empire with my own hands. This conglomerate is clean and efficient. Not like the past.”
He leans forward,
“And just because I trained you all in the Bratva way does not mean I want you living it forever.”
I feel his eyes burn through me.
“Alexander,” His voice sharpens, cutting the air. “I don’t want you doing any of that dirty work again.”
He pauses, deliberate. “Greg told me what you did.”
My teeth grind before I can stop myself. Of course. Greg, my grandfather’s head of security. He must have told my father about Robert Grey. About what I did.
My father sets down his fork, folding his hands like a man at the head of a board meeting. His gaze pins me.
“Any reason you told Greg not to do the cement shoes to Robert?”
I meet his stare without flinching.
“I wanted his body found,” I say evenly. “I wanted the victim to know he was gone. That she could sleep without fearing his shadow.”
His jaw ticks, but his voice stays cold. “You had your fun in Russia with your grandfather and his bratva. But now you’re back. Here, you have an important role in my company. I don’t want your hands dirty anymore. Leave that filth to the bratva.”
For a moment, the urge to tell him exactly where he can shove his rules burns hot in my throat. But then Anton’s eyes catch mine across the table—steady, grounding, a silent warning not to start a war tonight. I lock my jaw and give my father the smallest, stiffest nod.
He leans back, satisfied. “And whatever it is that’s distracting you…” His eyes narrow slightly, cutting through me, “Don’t let it interfere with your work. Handle it.” He finishes in Russian.
I feel my eye twitch, but my mother cuts through the tension with a smile, her tone warm but not blind.
“You should eat more, Sasha,” she says softly. “At least try the medovik I baked for you.”
Her sweetness is a balm I don’t deserve. Still, I can’t look at her again. She’ll see too much. She always does.
Dinner drags on, suffocating in its civility. My father shifts to discussing contracts and meetings; my mother’s voice brightens when she talks about her new makeup brand, soon launching in Bangkok. Maksim hums along absently, already halfway gone in his own world. I move rice around my plate.
Eventually, the plates are cleared. Maksim disappears first, whistling some off-key tune, his energy leaving the room hollow.
My father retreats to his study, and I spend some time listening absently to my Mom talk about family drama.
I’m halfway down the front steps when Anton falls into stride beside me, hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets.
“You’re slipping,” he says quietly.
I don’t bother looking at him. “What?”
He taps the side of his temple with two fingers. “Up here. Something’s eating at you.”
“I’m fine.”
He stops walking. The weight of his silence forces me to stop too. His expression is calm, collected, but there’s a faint crease between his brows; it’s concern, not accusation. That’s Anton. He doesn’t waste words, but he notices everything.
“Who is it?” he asks, voice steady. “Does it have anything to do with that painting… or the server?”
For a split second, I slip. My surprise must flicker in my eyes, because his sigh is quiet, almost resigned. He’s always been the observer. When I don’t answer, he shakes his head, but not in judgment.
“Look. I don’t care what it is. Just don’t let it cloud your head. You don’t get distracted. Not unless it’s serious.”
He waits, eyes on me, before adding, “If you need help—”
“I don’t.”
My tone is sharper than I mean it, but I don’t take it back.
He studies me a moment longer, then nods once, turning toward the house. “Just be careful, Alex.”
The words trail after me, heavier than his footsteps.
I carry them with me all the way to the car.