Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
M IKHAIL
I haven't slept a single damn second.
The sun is crawling over the horizon, pouring gray light into the room, and I’m standing in front of the mirror staring at a man I barely recognize.
My eyes are bloodshot, my jaw is set so tight it feels like the bone might crack, and I’ve got a permanent, painful ache in my trousers that has been my only companion since we left my father’s dinner table last night.
Stupid. It was a stupid, prideful idea.
I thought I was being clever, punishing her by leaving her wanting.
I thought making her sit through dessert without her underwear while I held them in my pocket was the ultimate play of power.
But as I watch the pulse jumping in my neck, I realize I’m the one who’s been played.
She’s probably fast asleep in the suite, and I’m over here vibrating like a live wire because I can still feel the way she arched against that desk.
The sound of her cries, her moans. The way her skin felt scorching and slick under my fingers. I can still taste her on my tongue from when I kissed that silver scar on her hip.
God, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
I let out a low, guttural growl and punch the wall next to the mirror.
The wood splinters under my knuckles, the sharp sting of pain a brief, welcome distraction from the hardness in my pants.
I need adrenaline. I need a fight. I need something to kill the image of her blue eyes looking at me with that shattered, vulnerable honesty.
I’m supposed to meet Artyom in ten minutes. I’m supposed to be calm and rational and all sorts of fucking organized. But right now, I feel like I’m one wrong word away from burning the city down just to see if the fire is hotter than the want in my gut.
I grab a clean shirt and start buttoning it, my fingers clumsy and aggressive. I yank my tie into a knot that’s probably too tight, but I don't care. I need to be contained. I need to look like a Morozov, not a man who's unraveling because of his Petrov bride.
The door to the study swings open before I can even reach for my jacket. Artyom walks in, looking perfectly composed, perfectly cold. The Pakhan in his natural habitat. He takes one look at me, at the splintered wall, my reddened knuckles, and my foul expression—and he doesn't even blink.
"You look like hell, Mikhail," Artyom says. He walks to the sideboard and pours two coffees. Black. No sugar.
"I didn't ask for a medical evaluation," I snap, grabbing my jacket and shoving my arms into the sleeves. "Let's get this over with. I have things to do."
"Do you?" Artyom asks, handing me a mug. "Or are you just busy chasing your wife?"
"Watch your mouth," I growl. I take a sip of the coffee. It’s bitter and hot, but it does nothing to settle my temper.
Artyom sits behind the massive desk, spreading a map out between us. "We have a problem. A bigger one than your marriage."
Is that even possible? Because my marriage feels like a ticking bomb.
"State it," I say, forced to drop into the professional font I've spent years perfecting. I lean against the edge of the desk, trying to ignore the way my body is still screaming for Irina. "What’s happened now?"
"Another warehouse was hit," Artyom says, his voice flat. "Warehouse Twelve. Near the Jersey line. It wasn't a rival crew. It was a well-planned team. They knew exactly where the high-value crates were, and they knew the shift changes."
I feel the frost of the business settle over me, competing with the heat. "Twelve is where we keep the automated parts. The ones we’re shipping to the Germans. That’s a twenty-million-dollar loss."
"It’s worse than the money," Artyom says. He looks up, his gray eyes like flint. "Someone leaked the security protocols to the police. They raided the site ten minutes after the tactical team left. We didn't just lose the cargo; we have three men in custody who know enough to be dangerous."
I let out a breath that sounds like a hiss. "A leak? We don't have leaks. Our people are vetted."
"They were vetted by the old guard," Artyom reminds me. "Men who were loyal to Vladimir before they were loyal to us. Nothing is wrong, Mikhail. Even you noticed it through your fog of obsession."
"It wasn't a fog," I mutter, though I know he’s right.
We spend the next two hours going over manifests, call logs, and security feeds.
I try my best to focus, to be the strategist my brother needs, but every time there’s a lull in the conversation, I’m back in that bedroom.
I’m seeing the maps of the stars on the wall and the way Irina looked holding that book.
I want her. I want her so badly it’s starting to feel like a physical sickness.
"Mikhail," Artyom says, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at a shipping invoice for five minutes without reading a single word. "I'm listening."
"No, you aren't," Artyom says. He leans back, a rare, genuine laugh escaping him. It’s a dry, barking sound. "God, you’ve got it bad. I’ve seen men in love, but you look like you’re ready to snap in half. Did she put a spell on you in Mexico, or are you just that pathetic?"
I stand up so fast the chair hits the wall. "If you laugh one more time, brother, I will kill you."
Artyom’s laugh only gets louder. "Threatening the Pakhan over a woman. Vladimir was right about one thing—you always were the volatile one. But I didn't think a Petrov girl would be the one to finally break you."
"She hasn't broken anything!" I roar, my hands curling into fists. "I am in control. I am perfectly fine."
"You’re a liar," Artyom says, wiping a stray tear of amusement from his eye.
"But fine. Let's pretend you're a professional.
The man we caught at Warehouse Seven is still out cold.
The doctors say he had a reaction to the sedatives, so we can't squeeze him yet.
We don't need him to tell us what we already know but we do need proof. "
I take a deep breath, trying to force the image of Irina's thighs out of my head.
"Vladimir and Boris. They’re moving together.
They want to weaken our hold on the docks so they can slip their trafficking routes back in.
The leak to the police was a distraction—a way to tie us up in legal red tape while they consolidate. "
"Exactly," Artyom says, his expression turning cold again. "But we need proof. Real, undeniable proof that Vladimir is undermining the family. The Council won't let us move against a former Pakhan based on a hunch."
"I’ll find it," my teeth grind together as I think of every way possible I can find that proof. "I’ll go through every legacy code, every back-channel payout. If they’re moving money, I’ll find the trail."
"And Irina?" Artyom asks, watching me closely. "She’s Boris’s daughter. Are you sure she isn't the one feeding him the shift changes?"
No. Not after last night. Not after the way she looked at those girls in the warehouse.
"She isn't," I say.
"You're sure? Or you just want her to be innocent?"
I lean over the desk, my face inches from my brother's. "I'm sure because I’m not fucking stupid. She hates her father more than she hates me, brother. She’s searching for something, and Boris is the one holding it over her head. She wouldn't help him if he was on fire."
Artyom studies me for a long beat. "I hope you're right. Because if she’s playing you, Mikhail, I won't be the one who kills her. You will. That’s the law."
"She isn't playing me," I say, though a tiny, dark voice in the back of my head wonders if I’m just telling myself what I want to hear.
The meeting ends, but the foul mood doesn't lift. If anything, the realization that we’re being hunted from the inside makes the pressure in my gut even worse. I need to be at the top of my game, but I’m being dragged down by a hunger I can't satisfy.
Just one more minute of this, and I’m going to snap.