CHAPTER 28
DIMITRI
Dried blood has stuck to my knuckles like a second skin. Not all of it is mine. I watch the small cracks that form when I flex my fingers; the dull ache is a constant reminder of the last six hours.
The metallic tang lingers in my nostrils, mixed with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the sweat of someone else’s fear. Familiar sensations. Almost comforting.
The "cleanup" has been meticulous. We tracked the kidnappers’ accomplices to a motel on the outskirts. Two Irishmen—one of whom I recognized as Liam Keller’s former bodyguard.
Certain... persuasive techniques were required before they shared the full details of the operation.
I’m not proud of the methods, but I don’t regret them either. They touched what is mine.
Alexei was even more relentless than I was. I’d never seen him like that, not even when our father nearly beat one of our men to death for a minor mistake. The cold fury radiating from him as he interrogated the apparent leader made even my blood run cold. There was nothing left to bury.
Night has fallen over Las Vegas by the time we return to the Tsarina.
The casino buzzes with activity as always, oblivious to the bloody drama that unfolded in the city.
Lights, music, the chiming of slot machines, laughter.
.. the great American illusion continues uninterrupted.
Our reputation depends on that appearance of impeccable normalcy.
I head straight to my office, needing a moment of solitude to process the day’s events. The image of Sloane in that warehouse, her eyes wide with fear as I stepped between her and the kidnapper, keeps replaying in my mind. If I had lost her...
The thought churns my stomach with an intensity that feels foreign to me. I’ve seen men die before. I’ve caused the death of just as many. Why does the mere possibility of losing her affect me so deeply?
I’m pouring myself a whiskey when Viktor enters without knocking. Only he would dare.
"You need a shower," he comments, wrinkling his nose at my appearance.
He’s not wrong. My shirt, originally white, is now stained with various shades of rust-red. I should probably burn it.
"What I need is peace and quiet." I sink into the leather armchair behind my desk. "If you’ve come to give me a lecture on security protocols..."
"I’ve come about Sloane Murphy." He interrupts me, his voice adopting that professional tone he reserves for serious matters.
The glass of whiskey pauses halfway to my lips. Viktor takes a seat across from me, placing his tablet on the desk. His expression is indecipherable, as always, but there’s something in the tension of his jaw that puts me on alert.
"What have you found?" I ask, keeping my voice deliberately neutral. As if it doesn’t affect me.
Viktor slides the tablet toward me.
"Sloane Rebecca Murphy, civilian asset assisting the FBI," Viktor reads.
"Recruited by the Organized Crime unit in New York.
Sent to Las Vegas as part of an undercover operation to.
.. and I quote... 'investigate the alleged criminal activities of the Morozov organization and rescue Harper Keller, alleged kidnapping victim. '"
The whiskey suddenly tastes like ash. I swallow it in one gulp, letting the burn remind me this is real.
"Go on," I order, my voice rougher than I intended.
"Her file is heavily protected, but I managed to access recent communications between her and her direct superior, a certain Agent Cooper.
" Viktor swipes a finger across the screen, showing me fragments of messages. "She’s been providing him with information on our operations, though it’s surprisingly selective.
She seems to have omitted crucial details in her reports. "
I scan the messages, feeling a contradictory mix of betrayal and... relief? Sloane’s reports are intentionally vague, filled with speculation rather than facts. She could have buried us with what she’s seen. She could have provided concrete evidence. She hasn’t.
"Have you told Alexei?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"You’re the first to know," Viktor replies, studying my reaction. "I considered this matter... personal to you."
A humorless smile curves my lips. My cousin has always been too perceptive.
"What do you intend to do?" he asks finally, when my silence stretches too long.
I stand, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. The neon lights trace hypnotic patterns in the darkness, like artificial stars created to distract from the true night.
"Nothing," I finally answer.
"Nothing?" The surprise in Viktor’s voice is evident, a rare thing for him. "Dimitri, this woman is a mole. She’s here to destroy us."
I turn slowly to face him.
"This woman is mine," I declare, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "And she isn’t going to destroy anything."
Viktor looks at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his always perfectly styled hair, a rare gesture that betrays his unease.
"You’re insane," he murmurs, but without true conviction. "What do you plan to do, then? Seduce her into betraying the FBI? Because I’ll remind you she’s already been lying to you since she arrived."
"What I plan to do," I reply, pouring myself another whiskey, "is keep her."
"Even though she’s been spying on you?"
"Even though she’s been spying on me."
Viktor studies me for a long moment, his analytical mind clearly processing all the possible ramifications of my decision.
"You’ll need a plan," he says finally, accepting the inevitable. "You can’t simply ignore who she is and what she’s doing here."
"I know," I concede. "But that plan can wait until tomorrow. For now, I just need your discretion."
Viktor nods, picking up his tablet.
"You have my silence, Dima," he states, using the diminutive only family is allowed. "Just remember that while you’re thinking with... other parts of your anatomy, she could be planning our downfall."
When the door closes behind him, I finish the second whiskey in one swallow. The revelation should have enraged me. I should be planning how to neutralize the threat, how to protect our organization.
Instead, I feel a strange relief. The pieces fit now: her curiosity, her questions, her exploration of restricted areas. She isn’t a rival spy or a journalist. She’s a civilian playing at being an undercover agent, clearly out of her element.
I’m sure she’s doing all this for Harper.
A smile forms on my lips as I head to the private shower adjacent to my office. I strip off the bloody clothes, letting the hot water wash away the last vestiges of today’s violence. Steam fills the stall, wrapping around my body like a second skin while my mind processes what I’ve just discovered.
A civilian collaborating with the FBI. In my bed. In my life.
The irony isn’t lost on me. But even more surprising is my reaction. I don’t feel fury, but a strange possessiveness that’s even more intense. As if her forbidden nature only heightens my determination to claim her.
Because I’ve decided. Sloane Murphy, FBI informant or not, is mine. And what is mine, I keep.
Half an hour later, showered and changed into clean clothes, I head to Alexei’s penthouse. I need to talk to my brother before making any definitive decisions. Not to ask for permission—I’ve never needed that—but to ensure we’re on the same page regarding our respective women.
I find him in his private study, reviewing what look like security blueprints for the casino.
"How are Harper and the baby?" I ask as I enter, not bothering to say hello.
"Sleeping," he answers, looking up from the documents. "The doctor says they’re perfectly fine, but recommended rest."
I nod, pouring us two fingers of Macallan from his private reserve. I hand him one of the glasses, settling into the armchair across from him.
"We need to talk," I say after a brief silence.
"If it’s about the security protocols, I’m already on it," he replies, gesturing to the blueprints. "This won’t happen again."
"It’s not about that," I clarify, taking a sip of whiskey, letting the amber liquid warm my throat. "It’s about Sloane."
Alexei raises an eyebrow, his full attention now focused on me.
"What about her?"
"She is mine," I declare without preamble. "I understand she’s Harper’s best friend, and I’ll respect that. But I want it clear that she is mine."
A slow smile curves my brother’s lips, more genuine than I’ve seen in years, except when he looks at Harper.
"You don’t say," he replies with a hint of irony. "I never would have guessed, given the way you practically threw yourself between her and a bullet today."
"I’m not joking, Alexei," I insist, leaning forward. "I’m going to keep her. Permanently."
The smile vanishes from his face, replaced by a more sober, calculating expression. The Pakhan, not the brother.
"Are you sure?" he asks finally. "She’s not like us, Dima. She’s... innocent, despite her attitude."
I almost laugh at the irony. If only he knew...
"I’m sure," I answer, holding his gaze. "Surer than I’ve ever been."
Alexei studies me for a long moment, as if evaluating my resolve. Finally, he nods.
"You have my blessing," he says, raising his glass in a silent toast. "But if you hurt her..."
"I know, I know," I interrupt with a crooked smile. "You’ll cut off my balls and make me swallow them."
"Worse," he corrects, his voice deceptively soft. "I’ll let Harper do it."
We both laugh, the sound unusually light after the day we’ve had. For a moment, we’re just two brothers sharing a whiskey and a joke, not the ruthless leaders of a criminal organization.
"Sloane is special to Harper," Alexei adds after a moment. "She considers her family. Keep that in mind."
I nod, understanding the implied warning. Harper’s loyalties matter to him. And now, Sloane’s loyalties matter to me, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
We sit in silence for a few more minutes, finishing our drinks. We don’t need more words. It’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about my relationship with Alexei: the ability to understand each other without unnecessary explanations.
When I stand up to leave, he stops me with a final question:
"When do you plan to tell her?"
I smile, thinking of the look on Sloane’s face when she discovers her secrets aren’t so secret after all.
"All in due time, brother," I reply. "All in due time."
Before retreating to my own apartment, I find myself taking a detour toward Sloane’s room in the penthouse. It’s not a conscious decision; my feet seem to carry me there of their own volition.
The door is ajar. I push it gently, slipping into the gloom of the room.
The only light comes from the city lights filtering through the parted curtains, tracing golden and blue patterns on the floor, on the bed... on her.
Sloane is sleeping soundly, emotional and physical exhaustion finally taking its toll.
She lies on her side, one hand under her cheek, the other spread over the white sheets.
Her red hair, free of any tie, spills over the pillow like flames frozen in time.
She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt that leaves the delicate curve of her shoulder bare.
I approach silently, my steps muffled by the thick carpet. Seeing her like this, vulnerable and at peace, makes something twist inside me. An emotion I don’t want to name.
I tilt my head, studying her features relaxed in sleep. The freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, almost invisible in the dim light. The long lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones. Her lips slightly parted, exhaling softly.
My little FBI spy. So brave, so stubborn... so out of her element.
I lean over the bed. With infinite care, I reach out and stroke a lock of her hair, marveling at the silky texture between my fingers.
"My little spy," I whisper, so low it’s barely a verbalized thought. "You don’t know it yet, but your game is up."
Sloane murmurs something unintelligible in her sleep, shifting slightly. I hold my breath, but she doesn’t wake up. Her face turns toward my hand, as if unconsciously seeking the contact.
"You are mine," I continue whispering, letting my fingers brush against her cheek with the lightest of caresses. "Agent Murphy or not, you belong to me."
For an instant, I contemplate the irony of the situation. The brother of a Bratva Pakhan, in love with an FBI informant. It sounds like the start of a bad joke.
And yet, here I am, unable to imagine a future where she isn’t by my side. Unable to conceive of letting her go, even knowing her presence in my life is a ticking time bomb.
I straighten up slowly, careful not to disturb her sleep. Tomorrow there will be time for confrontations, for uncomfortable truths, for decisions that will change both our lives.
For tonight, I settle for watching her one last time from the doorway before closing it silently behind me.
Tomorrow, Sloane Murphy will discover what it really means to belong to a Morozov.