Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
ALEXANDER
Lucas sits rigid beside me, staring out the car window like the glass has something important to say. He’s been avoiding my eyes since we left the store, and I don’t blame him.
If I were him, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself either.
I can’t stop thinking about him. Every outfit he tried on, every nervous glance he gave the mirror before glancing at me. How he had lifted a hand to fix a collar or tug at a hem, like he didn’t know he already looked good. Not just good. Devastating.
And I’d been watching him, pretending not to react. Pretending like my fingers weren’t twitching. Like I didn’t want to walk into that fitting room, shut the door, and finally do what I’ve been thinking about for days now.
Touch him.
Hold him.
Feel him close to me again after that day he came undone in my arms.
I’ve been trying to control myself, begging my self-control not to snap whenever he gets close to me, his scent, his lips, those big, innocent eyes of his.
The car slows. We pull up in front of a dark building, its front lined with warm wooden panels and low lights under the eaves. He finally turns to look at me, giving me the soft, puzzled expression on his pretty face that I am accustomed to. He doesn’t say anything, but he raises an eyebrow.
I don’t reply.
We step out of the car, Ashley stays behind for a moment, murmuring something into her phone, then steps ahead and tells me she’ll be at one of the tables downstairs.
Inside, it’s quiet, and the scent of grilled fish, miso, and something warm fills the air.
The staff are dressed in elegant black-and-red kimono-style uniforms. One of them bows deeply and greets me by name.
“Mr. Petrov, welcome back.”
I nod once.
My hand goes to the small of Lucas’s back without thinking—light, just a guide. His body tenses for half a second, then settles.
We head upstairs.
Another man, older, dressed in dark robes, is waiting. He bows and slides the door open to a private room.
Four chairs. Low-polished table. Tatami-style floors softened with modern cushions. The air is warmer here, lit by a single light fixture hanging low over the center.
I pull out a chair for Lucas.
He hesitates, then sits with a nervous glance toward me.
“Why are we here?” he asks, quietly, like he’s still half-waiting for something to go wrong. I lower myself into the chair across from him.
“To have an early dinner,” I reply.
He blinks, looks at the watch on his wrist, then mumbles,
“Oh.”
There’s a brief silence.
Then, the door slides open again.
Servers come in like a quiet, choreographed dance.
They start placing dishes gently across the table—ceramic bowls, delicate platters of sushi and sashimi, steaming sides, a tray of pickled vegetables arranged like art.
Another sets down a pot of green tea and pours it into small cups.
The last walks up with a large, deep bowl and gently sets it in front of Lucas.
A soft plume of steam rises from it. The scent of spice and sesame hits instantly.
“This is tantanmen ramen,” the server explains with a practiced tone, smiling at Lucas. “Mild spice, creamy broth. I am sure you will enjoy it.”
I glance at Lucas as his eyes widen, slowly shifting over every platter laid in front of him. He looks stunned. Lost in rows of delicate rolls and nigiri arranged like art.
He looks back up at me and blinks,
“You know how to use chopsticks?” I ask
He hesitates, then nods,
“Go ahead then,”
He let out a deep breath, taking his chopsticks and picking up a tempura roll carefully.
He puts the roll in his mouth and chews
His eyes widen.
Then closes.
And he makes a sound, a small, soft moan, deep in his throat, like it slips out without permission. My jaw tightens so fast I almost feel it crack, and my tongue presses against the roof of my mouth.
Fuck.
It’s stupid how fast my brain goes there. The memory hits like a punch—his body pressed to mine, those hips rolling slow, that same sound spilling from his mouth as he gripped my shoulders like he’d drown without it.
God, I hate myself.
“Do you like it?” I ask, trying to sound as normal as possible.
His eyes fly open. He nods fast, a quick, bright movement. He signs something simple—“So good.”
“Try another,” I say, voice lower than I mean it to be. I reach out, point.
“This one. Nigiri. Dip the fish side in soy sauce. Not the rice.”
He nods again, copying my gesture as he lifts the piece. He does it exactly right. Then takes a bite. His lips part as he chews, then he swallows.
“Oh my God,” he says under his breath, voice quiet but full of wonder.
I snicker, can’t help it.
He blushes, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth now. I lean back a little as I take a bite of my own. We fall into a rhythm where he tries something new and I watch him react. It’s quiet between us, but not uncomfortable.
He slurps his ramen next—messy, unapologetic, and he sighs after the first mouthful like he’s finally warm. Like something in him just unlocked.
Then he looks at me.
And Smiles. Not a half-hearted twitch, but a real one.
Small but full. The kind that lights up his face.
I feel it like a hit to the chest.
He didn’t even smile when he was trying on the clothes, not like this. Not since… hell, I don’t remember the last time I saw that smile, or if I’ve ever seen them before. It’s fucking blinding, beautiful in a way that almost makes me want to bundle him and make him not leave my sight.
Then he says, voice barely above a whisper,
“Thank you.”
I don’t know what to say. The words catch somewhere between my ribs. I just stare at him, like a starstruck idiot.
He looks down quickly, back at his food, a smile still lingering on his lips. And maybe I should say something. Something kind, or careful, or warm.
But I can’t.
All I can do is watch him.
Like if I blink, he might vanish.
***
I don’t bother with music right now. The engine’s low growl is enough.
The city falls away behind me like a bad taste I’m spitting out, swallowed by the woods stretching vast and endless. My grandfather’s estate waits at the end of this road — carved out of stone and shadow, hidden from the world in a small town that pretends it doesn’t know what festers here.
The gated drive looms ahead. Floodlights snap on as the cameras catch my plates. A buzz, heavy iron teeth parting, and the gates drag open. Two guards in black nod as I pass.
The road curls deeper, lined with flickering ground lights that throw restless shadows over cracked statues and roots gnarled like veins. Then the mansion appears—dark stone strangled in ivy, its narrow windows like slit eyes.
I cut the engine. The silence is heavier here, thick with memory and blood. Before I reach the steps, the front doors heave open. Guards bow their heads slightly as I pass. Inside, the corridor exudes the scent of old wax, oak, and iron.
“Alexander.”
Greg’s voice carries like gravel dragged across steel.
He steps out of the shadows, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a black shirt fitted tightly across his muscles and scar.
His eyes — cold, steady, the kind that never flinch.
Greg doesn’t need to raise his voice to command.
He’s been shaping me since I was ten, teaching me how to break bones before I knew how to fix my own mistakes.
“Greg.”
No warmth in the word, but respect. Always respect. He falls into step beside me. Together, we move down the corridor lined with portraits of the Petrov bloodline. Their painted eyes follow, judging, demanding. Legacy doesn’t just breathe in this house — it suffocates.
“How is he?” My question slices the silence.
Greg’s answer is blunt, clipped.
“Alive. Barely. A week down there hasn’t done him favors.” His glance brushes me, cold amusement at the corner of his mouth. “You here to finish the job?”
I shrug, the corner of my lip twitching.
“Maybe.” I say with a shrug, “Igor and Ivana still here?”
“Yes. However, they went to your father’s estate this morning. Ivana wanted to visit the stables. Igor is out somewhere with Maksim. Likely stirring trouble.”
Of course. Ivana is always chasing peace, and Igor likes chasing chaos. Children of Anya — my father’s sister, the one who took over my grandfather’s tobacco empire in Russia before she was even old enough. Ruthless in her silence. Her kids aren’t far behind.
We stop at the grandfather clock at the hall’s end, its hands frozen in eternal midnight.
Greg presses his palm against the panel hidden behind it.
A low click echoes, stone grinding as the wall parts.
A breath of stale air rises. The hidden staircase yawns before us, spiraling down into firelight and shadow.
We descend in silence, the sound of our footsteps echoes off the walls — measured and deliberate.
Down here, nothing breathes unless we allow it to.
When we reach the bottom, we walk past closed steel door cells, almost all of them filled with offenders or betrayers.
When we get to a particular door, Greg punches in the code. The locks unlatch, one by one.
The door swings open.
I step inside.
He’s there.
Jeremy.
Strapped to the metal chair, head down, a line of blood dried at the corner of his lip. His arms are tied, his shirt torn, his face bruised and purple from earlier damage.
His head lifts slowly at the sound of the door. His eyes land on me and widen.
The recognition hits.
He doesn’t know my name. Doesn’t know who I am.
But he remembers. He remembers the night I showed up at his apartment, when my fists left him bleeding on the floor. The last time he saw me, I was close to shattering his face in, and Maksim had to drag me off before I finished the job.
His voice cracks now, thin and brittle.
“Look, man… please. Just—just tell me why you’re doing this.”