Chapter Twenty
Arkady
Tulikov’s face is twisted with dark satisfaction as his words hang in the air. He knows he got to me, and he’s drinking in my pain.
Not for long, mudak!
I slam him against the concrete wall behind us, my forearm crushing his windpipe.
“You threaten me again, I will break your fucking neck.” The words scrape out of my throat, rough and raw.
His eyes gleam with a hatred that matches my own. But there’s something else there. Something that makes my stomach turn. Amusement.
“You think I’m afraid of you?” He wheezes through the pressure I’m applying. “After what I know? Child killer!”
My grip falters for a fraction of a second. Long enough for him to reach into his jacket.
The knife catches the dim streetlight as he swings his arm, aiming for my ribs. But I’ve spent a lifetime preparing for men who fight dirty. My reflexes take over before conscious thought can form.
I twist sideways, capturing his wrist in a bone-crushing grip and wrenching until the weapon clatters to the concrete. The sound echoes through the night air.
Tulikov’s knee drives upward, aiming for my groin, but I shift just enough that it glances off my thigh instead. The impact still sends shockwaves of pain up my leg.
“Is this how you solve all your problems?” I snarl, dodging as he attempts to rake his fingers across my eyes. “Like a common street thug?”
He laughs—a wet, ugly sound. “Says the man who couldn’t even marry my daughter without making a spectacle.” His elbow catches me in the ribs, hard enough that my breath stutters. “She’s ruined because of you. And now you’re fucking that housekeeper like some kind of—”
I don’t let him finish. My fist connects with his temple, snapping his head sideways. He staggers, but doesn’t fall.
“Don’t say another word about her.” The calm in my voice terrifies even me. Not hot rage anymore—something colder, more focused. Something that belongs to my father’s world, not mine.
“Hit a nerve, did I?” Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth as he grins. “Wonder what she’d think if she knew about you. What you did.”
My vision tunnels, black closing in at the edges.
“Maybe I’ll tell her myself.” His voice drops to something silky, venomous. “After I’ve had a taste. I saw what she looked like that day. Pretty little thing. Those lips. Those tits—”
He goes for my eyes again, but I’m done playing. I sidestep and land a precise left hook to his jaw. The impact reverberates up my arm. Tulikov’s head snaps back—too far, too fast—and the momentum carries him forward as his legs give way.
I see it happen in slow motion. His body lurches awkwardly, face aimed directly toward the concrete curb. The sickening crack as his neck meets the edge shoots through me like an electrical current.
He doesn’t move after that.
He’s never going to move again.
The silence that follows feels absolute, broken only by my ragged breathing and the distant music.
“Blyad,” I whisper, then louder: “blyad!”
This wasn’t the plan. I came here to negotiate—to warn him away from my turf, to end the threats against my business. Not this.
Pizdets! This fucking complicates things.
I kneel beside him, fingers searching for a pulse I already know won’t be there. His neck sits at an impossible angle, eyes staring upward at nothing.
It’s not my first death. Not even my first kill. But it’s the first one that happened without intention, without choice. Just like with Mishka.
That thought breaks something inside me.
I stand, legs unsteady, staring down at what I’ve done.
Footsteps approach from behind—fast, purposeful. My hand moves instinctively toward my weapon before I register the familiar gait.
“Chert voz’mi, pakhan!” Stefan’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.
I turn to find him emerging from the shadows near the restaurant’s side entrance, his bald head catching the streetlight. Behind him, the limo door clicks open, and my driver steps out, face carefully blank as he takes in the scene.
The realization hits me: it all happened in seconds.
How fucking fast did this spiral?
“Handle it,” I say, the words scraping out. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.
Stefan moves closer, his eyes scanning Tulikov’s broken form with the practiced assessment of a man who’s seen worse.
“Da.”
No questions. No judgment. Just the quiet acceptance of a man who understands the Bratva life better than most.
The driver has already retreated to the vehicle, understanding his role without needing to be told. See nothing. Know nothing.
“And prepare the jet,” I add, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. “I’m flying back tonight.”
“Khoroshiy, pakhan.”
Stefan pulls out his phone, already making the calls that will erase this night from existence. His efficiency should comfort me—it’s saved my arse more times than I can count. Instead, it sits like acid in my stomach.
Of course he knows what to do. Stefan has cleaned up worse messes than this—for my father, for the Bratva, and now for me.
I turn away, unable to look at Tulikov’s body any longer. Each step carries me toward the limo, but the distance does nothing to separate me from what just happened.
Sergei Tulikov. Power broker. Father. A man I despised but never planned to kill.
Yet here we are.
Another death on my hands. Another life I’ve taken, this time because he dared touch my most vulnerable points—Mishka’s memory and Mirabel’s safety.
The ultimate fucking irony: I’ve spent my life building walls between myself and my father’s brutality. Yet with one unintended death, I’ve become exactly what I swore I wouldn’t. The line between us blurs a little more each year, and tonight it’s nearly invisible.
The limo door opens. I slide inside without looking back, leaving Stefan to handle what I’ve left behind—the mess, the body, the evidence of what I’ve become.
***
Hours later, the steady hum of the jet’s engines provides the only soundtrack to my thoughts.
The flight crew has strict instructions not to disturb me, and they’ll obey those instructions if they know what’s good for them.
I’m on my third vodka… not that it’s helping. Nothing helps on nights like this.
I close my eyes, but all I see is Tulikov’s neck snapping. Mishka’s blood blooming across his shirt. Two deaths. Two accidents. Two moments that define me more than all my deliberate choices combined.
My father will find out about Tulikov soon enough. Will he see it as weakness or strength? A liability or an opportunity? Every move on this chessboard shifts the balance of power. Even when I’m not trying to play, I change the game.
My phone buzzes, pulling my thoughts back from the darkness.
It’s a security alert from home—motion detected in a restricted area.
Frowning, I open the app and select the feed from the mansion’s security system. A few taps and I access the camera outside the Secret Room.
I go cold.
Mirabel.
She stands in the hallway, staring at the door like it’s a gateway to another dimension. The cleaning supplies beside her tell me she’s been working. But the intensity in her expression has nothing to do with housekeeping.
I watch as she pulls a key from her pocket.
Chto eto, blyat’, takoye?
What the fuck is she doing?
I should be furious. Should be calling the house to stop her, firing her on the spot. But something keeps me silent, watching as she unlocks the door and steps inside.
Into the one space no one enters. The one place in the world where Mishka still exists.
I switch to the interior feed. She moves through the room like someone in a museum. Her fingertips ghost over surfaces, never quite touching, as if she knows her presence is already an intrusion.
When she disappears into the bathroom, I’m ready to make the call. Except as she reappears, something in her expression makes me pause.
And then she does something that stops me cold.
She sits on the sofa. Lies back. Closes her eyes. Her cheeks flush. Her breathing changes. And I recognize the subtle shift of her body against the cushions for exactly what it is.
Desire.
My cock hardens painfully fast, blood rushing south with enough force to make me dizzy. Or maybe that’s the vodka. Or the emotional whiplash of going from grief to lust in the span of seconds.
I watch her sit up suddenly, face coloring. Watch her mouth words to herself—a self-reprimand, from the looks of it.
But she doesn’t leave. Instead, her hand drifts down her stomach, hesitating at the waistband of her skirt.
I go totally still, gripping my phone with white knuckles, breath coming faster as her hand slips beneath the fabric.
The camera angle prevents me from seeing details, but her expression tells me everything. The slight parting of her lips. The tension in her neck as her head tips back. The flush spreading down her throat.
My own hand moves without conscious thought, palm pressing against the rigid length of my shaft straining against my zipper. Just pressure at first, a useless attempt to ease the ache.
On screen, she shifts—one hand disappearing beneath her skirt while the other slides under her shirt. Even through the grainy feed, I can see her fingers moving beneath the fabric, working her breast. Her back arches slightly, pushing into her own touch.
Blyad.
I unzip my pants, freeing myself with a hiss of relief. The air in the cabin feels too hot, too close. My hand wraps around my cock—rough, demanding—matching what I imagine her rhythm to be.
She’s not gentle with herself. I can tell by the way her body moves, the increasing urgency in how her hips shift against the sofa.
I stroke myself harder, faster, imagining what she’s doing beneath that skirt. How wet she must be. Whether she’s using one finger or two. If she’s circling her clit or applying direct pressure.
Her mouth opens on what looks like a gasp. Her thighs part wider, one leg sliding off the sofa entirely, foot planted on the floor for leverage. The movement is unguarded, desperate—nothing like the careful composure she maintains in my presence.
This is Mirabel unfiltered. Raw. Chasing pleasure.
My grip tightens, pre-cum slicking my palm as I work myself with brutal strokes. The vodka has loosened something in me, stripped away the usual control that governs every action. Right now, I want nothing more than to sink into her heat.
On screen, both her hands are moving now—one still beneath her skirt, the other switching between her breasts. Her head tips back against the cushions, exposing the long line of her throat.
Christ, what I’d do to that throat.
The thought slams through me, vivid and visceral. My mouth on her skin. Teeth scraping. Tongue tasting the salt of her sweat while my fingers replace hers between her legs.
Her body goes taut, every muscle locking as she reaches the edge. I can see it in the rigid line of her spine, the way she suddenly clutches at the sofa instead of her breast. Bracing herself.
My own release barrels toward me with devastating force. I stroke faster, rougher, chasing the pleasure that’s coiling tighter with each passing second.
She comes. I can tell by the way her mouth opens on what must be a cry, by how her entire body shudders with the force of it. Her hand keeps moving beneath her skirt—working herself through the waves, drawing it out.
That image—Mirabel lost in climax—destroys me.
I come with a strangled curse, biting down on my lip to muffle the sound. The orgasm rips through me, vicious and unrelenting. Pleasure radiates outward from my groin, setting every nerve ablaze. My cock pulses in my grip, spilling over my hand.
The intensity staggers me. My free hand grips the armrest hard enough that the leather creaks under the pressure. The tattoos across my chest feel like they’re burning, the wings at my throat constricting around my ragged breathing.
I’m left trembling, vision blurred at the edges, completely undone in a way I never allow myself to be.
On screen, Mirabel sits up suddenly, her face flushed and her expression shifting from satisfaction to something darker. Shame, maybe. Or horror at what she’s just done.
I watch her stand, straighten her clothing. Watch her smooth the sofa cushions.
My own breathing is still uneven, my body still humming with aftershocks. I grab tissues from the console beside me, cleaning myself while my mind struggles to process what just happened.
What I just did.
Watched her fingerfuck herself. Got off on it like some kind of voyeur.
But before disgust can fully take hold, I notice her expression changing. The relaxation of climax giving way to something heavier. Darker.
She starts to leave. Then stops, turning back toward the urn.
She stares at it for a long moment, emotions flickering across her face that I can’t fully decipher. She says something—too quiet for the mic to catch, but it looks like “I’m sorry.”
Then she slips out, closing the door carefully behind her.
Fuck.
I shut down the feed, dropping the phone beside me on the leather seat. My body feels wrecked, my mind caught between afterglow and annoyance at what just happened. At what I just did.
I don’t know what this means. Don’t know where we go from here, or if we go anywhere at all. If this had been anyone else, they’d be out already. But not her. And I don’t know why.
All I know is that everything has changed.
And I’m not sure I want to fight it.