Chapter Eight
Anya
M y phone buzzes on the nightstand, the soft vibration breaking the silence. The first rays of sunlight slip through the curtains, casting a soft glow over Riccardo’s bedroom. My body is sore in all the right places, a reminder of how we spent the night. I slip out from under the sheets, careful not to wake him, and reach for my phone.
The name on the screen makes my stomach clench. Sergei.
The message is short and clear, but my eyes fly over it several times, anyway.
Your father is unwell. The doctor is with him. You need to come.
My breath catches, and for a moment, I just sit there, staring at the screen.
Unwell.
My father has been unwell for years. If Sergei, of all people, texts me, then this is much worse than him being unwell. I’ve known this moment was coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier to face.
I find my clothes strewn across the floor, pulling them on quickly, and ignore the dried cum on my upper thigh.
Riccardo shifts in the bed, his eyes half-open as he watches me get dressed. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just watches, which is fine by me, since I don’t have the time or the energy to explain.
And then he goes and ruins a good thing.
“Anya?” His voice is rough, still heavy with sleep. He props himself up on his elbow, studying me. “Where are you going?”
“I need to leave,” I say, stating the obvious while slipping my jacket on, my voice colder than intended. I can see the flicker of confusion, and something else, maybe annoyance, crossing his face. After last night, he’s probably expecting me to start playing wifey for him. Or at least fall into whatever role his usual mistresses perform. The thought makes annoyance flare in me, but I choose to ignore that. I’ve got bigger problems right now.
“My father needs me.”
His expression hardens. “Business?”
I glance at him briefly, my mind already miles away, back in my father’s house, wondering what I’ll find when I get there. The irony of Riccardo’s question might have pissed me off otherwise. Business? Yeah, right. The day my father dies would be the day he’d include me in the business. And then the idea of my father actually being so poorly he’s dying works like a cold shower and pulls me back into reality.
Riccardo is a tool. I don’t need to explain myself to him. Last night was fun, but the deal we sealed is what I really need him for. Nothing more. Which is why I deflect his question. “All of this is business. I told you from the start. And right now, I’ve got to go.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue, just watches me with those unreadable eyes, sitting up fully, the sheets falling around his waist. The sight of him like that, shirtless and mussed up but still looking in control somehow, sends an unwanted heat through me. But I shove it aside.
I grab my jacket and head for the door, moving through the house to the main door in a daze. The drive to my father’s house and the way up the stairwell to the upper floor where his bedroom is feels too long, like it’s stretching out, but somehow I’m at my father’s bedroom door faster than I expected. It’s not fully closed and I push it open without knocking.
The air in the room is heavy. Stale. It makes me want to yell at the men in the room for not opening the windows, but then my eyes land on my father. He is lying on the bed, propped up by pillows, his skin pale and drawn tight over his bones. Doctor Beskin is sitting next to him with a serious expression, and the moment his eyes meet mine, I know. Not just suspect, but really know.
“It’s time, Anya,” the doctor says softly, standing up to give me room. “His lungs are failing. The complications... they’re too much. I’ve administered the medications.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. Cystic fibrosis. It’s been a shadow hanging over him for as long as I can remember, but actually losing him... I take a step forward, my eyes locked on my father’s face. His eyes flutter open when I reach his side, and for the first time in my life, he looks small.
“Anya...” His voice is barely a rasp, each word a struggle. He tries to smile, but it’s weak, fragile. “You... came.”
“Of course I came,” I whisper, moving closer. I sit beside him, my hand hovering before I finally take his cold, shaking one in mine. “Papa...”
He coughs, a dry, wheezing sound that makes my chest ache.
I turn to the doctor. “How could he have taken such a drastic turn? I just saw him yesterday. He was fine.”
The doctor shakes his head. “He wasn’t fine, Anya. Your father hasn’t been fine for a long time. You know that. His chronic cough has been worsening and his pulmonary functions have been declining rapidly. Yesterday evening, he developed a high fever. He’s received the medication he’s requested, and that kept him going this past month, but his body isn’t able to sustain that kind of treatment anymore.”
I can read between the lines of what the doctor isn’t straight up telling me. My father has been taking medications that people getting legitimate hospital care wouldn’t have access to. Probably for a good reason.
I look at my father. He would have taken anything that would let him hang on to as much of his capacities as possible. And now, none of it is helping anymore, so he’s taken the kind of meds that won’t make him live on when he can’t be the one in charge anymore.
The doctor murmurs something about giving us privacy and slips out of the room, but I barely notice. All I can see is my father’s face, and the pain etched into every line.
He’s made me so angry. And now he’s hurting me more than he ever did before. Because he’s about to leave me.
“I did... everything for you,” he says, his voice thin and brittle. “Everything... to protect you. Marry Dmitri, detka . He will keep you safe. The Bratva... needs strength. You... you need someone to care for you. Dmitri... will do that.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood. This is what he thinks will save me—marrying a man like Dmitri, a man I want nothing to do with. But at this moment, looking at him, so fragile and desperate to believe he’s done the right thing, I can’t bring myself to argue.
“I know, Papa,” I say softly, my voice steady even as something inside me twists at the lie. “I know you meant well.”
His lips tremble as he tries to speak again, but the words don’t come. I squeeze his hand gently. I’ll never marry Dmitri, but my father doesn’t need to know that. Just like he never found out that I’ve done far more for running his operations than Mikhail ever did.
This is his end, and he needs to believe in the choice he made. Even if it’s wrong. That’s the last thing I can give him as his good little girl.
“You’ve... always been my strong girl,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting closed again. “Be... a good girl, Anya. For me. Promise me.”
The air catches in my throat, thick and heavy, but I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“I promise,” I whisper, though it’s a lie. It’s not like it’s the first lie I’ve ever told him.
His hand goes limp in mine, and the room falls into an eerie stillness. I sit there for a long time, holding his hand, watching as the last breath leaves his body, the final remnants of the man who raised me slipping away.
Mikhail isn’t here to share this. Yet another way my brother has abandoned me.
At least I got this from my father. Twisted as it was, he loved me in his own way.
But now he’s gone, and everything is about to change.
Riccardo
The phone vibrates on my desk, its insistent buzz cutting through the peaceful silence that usually reigns when I instruct Bethany not to buzz me with appointments and reminders from her desk outside my door. I reach for my cell phone without looking up from the financial reports in front of me. Not that I’ve managed to focus much on them, not when images of Anya writhing under me keep flashing in my mind, making me wish I was wearing sweats rather than a well-tailored suit that is definitely cut too tightly around my crotch.
“Toni?” I answer. He’s been busy questioning the Solntsevskaya men, but I don’t expect there to be anything more than the initial bits of information we got out of them yesterday. After we verified the news of Adrik Tsepov’s death, which I got much earlier than I would have under different circumstances thanks to being tipped off by Anya’s frantic departure, I told Toni to keep an eye on Dmitri Solntsev himself.
“We’ve got a problem. Solntsev’s making a move already.”
I pause, letting his words sink in, but I’m not surprised. Dmitri Solntsev isn’t wasting time. He can’t afford to if this is his way of proving himself to his father and to establish himself in the city. With Tsepov senior’s death, he is left with two options, wait and see if Tsepov’s people follow through on the alliance he worked out using Anya as the token bind, or assert himself over the old Russian guard in the city through a show of strength.
I let out a slow breath, leaning back in my chair. “What’s his move?”
“He’s bringing in people and they flew completely under our radar.”
I curse. “How the fuck is that possible? We should know about anyone entering the city via any air routes or by crossing the border. Why didn’t we hear about this from any of our people at the other airports? What the fuck went wrong here?”
Sure, this might not be Toni’s fault, but I’m in no fucking mood to go easy on him right now.
“I don’t know, boss, but I’m looking into it. At the moment, Solntsev has ten of his men here in Toronto and we need to assume that the local Bratva is currently being handled by Sergei Abakumov who may very well be handing things over to Solntsev, presumably once the funeral is done to preserve respect for old Tsepov.”
“What are Solntsev’s men up to?” I’m hoping they are lying low while the Bratva grieves their boss, but a loose cannon like Dmitri doesn’t get shipped overseas by his dad for being a straight shooter. Not that it makes him any less dangerous. Between his family’s resources back in Russia and his reputation, it’s safe to say things are about to get fucking messy. And the stakes are likely high for Solntsev, because going back to Moscow with his tail tugged after he got the fucking Toronto Bratva district presented on a golden platter in the shape of a wedding band wouldn’t look good for his family at all.
“They’re setting up in the West End. One of the Bratva’s warehouses has Solntsev’s men out front and they’re staying in a nearby hotel associated with Tsepov. They’re the only guests. No bodies yet, but the Solntsevskaya made it clear they’re claiming the turf.”
Fucking predictable. Men like Dmitri can’t ever resist an opportunity to show off to prove they have the bigger dick, and taking Bratva turf while the local Bratva is scrambling is as good a show as any. Risky too, since he doesn’t have a lot of manpower to work with and he might step on toes he needs to steer clear of. But depending on how he frames the move, he might get away with it.
“Put someone on the building. I want to know what they’re up to.”
Toni grunts in agreement. “And what about the princess?”
That question catches me off guard. He means Anya. I clench my teeth to keep myself from snapping at Toni. His question makes sense, even if I don’t like him calling her princess.
What about Anya? It’s a fucking great question, actually.
My chest tightens at the thought of her being caught in the crossfire of this mess. Her cool, defiant gaze when she first came to my office flashes through my mind. Are her eyes now bloodshot from grieving her father? I shove the image away, but it keeps coming back.
She’s more capable of taking care of herself than most women I know, but still...
She could be in danger.
“Keep an eye on her,” I say eventually. “But don’t let her know. And do it personally.”
“Will do. Right now, she’s still at her father’s club. Seems like she’s lying low.”
This is the reason I trust Toni. He doesn’t always need instructions to get me the info I need. “Good. Make sure it stays that way. If Dmitri decides to pay her a visit, I want to know before he even thinks about it.”
I hang up, my fingers drumming on the polished wood of the desk. This isn’t like me. I don’t let myself worry about other people’s business, especially not women I fuck. But Anya... she’s a different kind of trouble. Smart, sharp, and with her own agenda.
Maybe that’s what has me on edge.
She’s trying to use me.
And fuck it, but that’s doing it for me even when she’s not riding my cock like she’s at the goddamn Olympics.
I stand and walk over to the window, staring out at the city. My city.
Dmitri is a nuisance, sure, but this? He didn’t wait for Tsepov’s own men to organize a response. He is using his death and the power vacuum that now defines the top of the Bratva hierarchy with Mikhail gone and Anya grieving, to assert his own claim to power based on an unfinished deal Adrik Tsepov intended to make. He wants control, and Anya is his ticket. He won’t stop until he has it all. Her and the Russians in the city agreeing to him being their new boss. The way Anya’s father intended.
And it shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.
I should be focusing on strategy, on how to crush Dmitri and his idiotic ambitions before they escalate further. On how to use this power vacuum to my own advantage. How to make sure Gianna and Mikhail don’t get any ideas about annexing the Russian areas. But all I can think about is Anya.
She walked into my office with more balls than most men I know, throwing out a marriage proposal like it was a fucking business transaction. She didn’t hesitate, not once, even though I could see the tension in her body, the way she refused to look weak.
Now, she’s alone in her father’s shadow, and Dmitri’s coming for everything she has left.
I hate to admit it, but I respect that kind of resilience. And if Dmitri underestimates her, he’s dumber than I thought. But that doesn’t mean she’s untouchable.
And I don’t like the idea of anyone but me touching her.
Another phone buzz. This time it’s a message: One of Dmitri’s men was spotted near the Tsepov Residence. Waiting for orders.
My hand tightens around the phone. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe Anya can handle herself.
I shove the phone into my pocket and grab my coat, the decision already made.
“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself, heading for the door. The message I type out to Toni is short and to the point.
I’ll handle it.