Chapter Nine #2
In the afternoon, I found my way to the library again, actually trying to read this time—a thriller in English that I found buried between volumes of Russian literature—when Alexei appeared in the doorway.
He was dressed for business: charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, the kind of tailoring that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
His dark auburn hair was perfectly styled, and those hazel eyes were sharp and assessing, as usual.
This was the version of him that negotiated shipping routes. This was the Pakhan’s cousin, not the man who held me like I was something precious last night.
“Get your coat,” he said, unblinking. Not a request.
I closed my book slowly, trying to ignore the way my pulse kicked up at the command in his voice. “Where are we going?”
“The docks. I want you to see something.”
I should have refused. I should have told him I was not some doll he could drag around. But there was something in his expression—not quite a challenge, but close—that made me want to see what he was offering.
So I got my coat.
The drive to the docks took about forty minutes, and Alexei spent most of it on his phone, switching between Russian and English with the ease of someone who had lived in multiple worlds.
I watched the city slide past the window—gray buildings and gray sky, people hurrying through their lives completely unaware that empires were being built and destroyed in the spaces between their mundane days.
When we arrived, I understood immediately why he brought me here. It wasn’t a romantic gesture; it was a demonstration of power.
The docks were massive—container ships and warehouses, cranes reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, men moving with purpose through organized chaos. And at the center of it all was Alexei, walking like he owned every inch of concrete and steel. Well, he did. And I was right beside him.
Men stepped aside as we walked past. Not obviously, but I noticed.
The subtle shift in posture, the way conversations paused and resumed only after we’d moved on.
They all carried guns—some more visible than others—hanging at their sides like accessories they’d worn so long they’d forgotten they were there.
Alexei led me through the labyrinth of containers and warehouses, one hand resting lightly on the small of my back.
To anyone watching, it probably looked protective.
Possessive. And maybe it was both of those things.
But to me, it felt grounding. Like he was tethering me to something solid while showing me exactly how deep the darkness went.
“This is where most of our legitimate operations run,” he told me, gesturing to a warehouse where men were unloading crates with systematic efficiency. “Electronics, mostly. Some textiles. All above board, all properly documented.”
“And the illegitimate ones?”
His lips curved into something that might be a smile on someone else. On him, it was just a slight softening of the edges. “Those don’t happen here.”
We walked further, past rows of containers stacked like giant metal building blocks.
Alexei explained the logistics in a way that made it sound almost boring—shipping routes and customs forms and the complex dance of moving goods across borders.
But I was good with numbers, good at seeing the patterns underneath the surface, and I understood all that he was really showing me.
This was an empire. Built on legitimate business, yes, but funded and protected by the kind of operations that didn’t appear on tax forms. Money laundering, probably. Maybe smuggling. Definitely things that would make my old forensic accounting professors weep.
And it was all his.
We were approaching another warehouse when a man stepped out—mid-thirties, thick-necked, with the kind of swagger that suggested he was used to being the biggest threat in the room.
He took one quick look at Alexei, and his expression shifted to something that might be respect but looked more like calculation.
“Sir,” the man said in heavily accented English. “We have a problem with the shipment from Rotterdam.”
Alexei stopped, and I could feel his hand press slightly harder against my back. “What kind of problem?”
“Customs flagged three containers. They say the documentation doesn’t match the manifest.”
“And does it?”
The man hesitated—just a fraction of a second, but long enough for me to know he was about to lie. “It should match. Maybe paperwork error—”
“Don’t.” Alexei’s voice didn’t rise. Clearly didn’t need to. The single word cut through the air like a blade. “Don’t lie to me, Ruslan.”
The man paled slightly. “I… there may have been some confusion about which forms—”
Alexei moved so fast I barely saw it. One moment, he was standing beside me, the next his fist connected with Ruslan’s nose with a sickening crunch. The man staggered back, blood already streaming down his face. I flinched involuntarily.
“You skimmed,” Alexei declared, his voice still perfectly calm. “You thought I wouldn’t notice. That you could hide a few extra items in legitimate shipments and pocket the profit.”
“Sir, I swear—”
“Don’t you fucking swear. And don’t ever think you’re smarter than me.
” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—monogrammed, expensive—and wiped his knuckles clean.
“You’re done here. Gather your things and be off my property in an hour.
If I see you again, the next thing that breaks won’t be your nose. ”
Ruslan didn’t speak another word. Clutching his face, he stumbled away, leaving drops of blood on the concrete.
And Alexei turned back to me as if nothing had happened. His hand found my back again, warm through my coat, and I realized I was shaking. Not from fear, exactly. But from the sudden understanding of what it meant to be married to a man who broke bones as easily as he buttoned his cuffs.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.
I wanted to say yes. To pretend that watching him hurt someone didn’t affect me. But I’d never been good at lying, especially not to myself.
“That was…” I trailed off, not sure how to finish.
“Necessary,” Alexei supplied matter-of-factly. “He stole from me. If I let that slide, others will think they can do the same. This world doesn’t allow for weakness, Mila.”
I knew that. Logically, I understood the brutal mathematics of it. But understanding and accepting were two different things.
“I know what you are,” I said, echoing the words I spoke to him yesterday. “But watching it is different from knowing it.”
Something flickered across his face—too quick to name, but it might be regret. Or maybe just acknowledgment.
“I know. That’s why I brought you here. I need you to see who I am. Not just in our bed, but out here. Where it matters.”
“Because you think I’ll run?”
“Because I think you deserve the truth.” His hand slid up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin there. “I won’t pretend to be something I’m not, Mila. This is my world. Blood, loyalty, and violence when it’s required. If you can’t handle that…”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but the unease that crossed his face told me all I needed to know.
I looked up at him—at the man who touched me with such careful reverence in the dark but broke noses without raising his voice in the light.
Feeling a sudden need to placate him, I smiled at him. His jaw clenched and then unclenched.
Even if I could run, I wasn’t sure I would want to.
**********
That night, we made love again.
Slower this time. Like we had all the time in the world, even though we both knew that was a lie. Alexei undressed me with the patience of a man unwrapping something precious, his hands mapping every inch of skin with a thoroughness that made me shiver.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against my collarbone.
I told myself it was just a way to survive. That this—the heat between us, the way our bodies fit together like they were designed for this—was just a coping mechanism for the impossible situation I’d found myself in. That I was using him as much as he might be using me, and that was fine.
But when he was inside me, moving with a slow deliberation that felt almost like worship, and his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that stole my breath—I knew I was wrong.
That the attraction I’d felt the first time we met was still burning hot, if not hotter.
I knew that he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
I knew that the marriage was just a gateway for the heat between us to be explored—by both of us.
“Say my name,” he whispered, one hand sliding up to cup my jaw. “Let me hear you.”
“Alexei.” My voice came out breathless, pleading. “Alexei, please—”
His eyes softened—just for a heartbeat, just enough for me to catch it before the hunger took over again.
And that softness terrified me more than all the violence I witnessed today.
At least violence has rules and patterns, cause and effect.
But this? This feeling spreading through my chest like warmth through cold water?
This need to be closer to him, to crawl inside his skin and find out what makes him tick?
This was uncharted territory.
Afterward, we lay tangled together in the dark, and I traced the skin of his chest.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion.
“I’m thinking that I should be more afraid of you than I am,” I answered, my chuckle a failed attempt at making things lighter.
His arms tightened around me. “And are you? Afraid?”
“Yes.” I pressed my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my hand. “But not in the way you probably think.”
“What way, then?”
I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of him—expensive cologne, clean sweat and something uniquely Alexei. “I’m afraid of how much I’m starting to want this. Want you. I’m afraid that I’m losing myself in you, and I’m not sure I care enough to stop it.”
For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then his hand slid up to tilt my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes in the dim light.
“Then we’re both afraid of the same thing,” he said quietly. “Because I’m not sure I could let you go now even if I wanted to.”
It should sound possessive. Controlling. Like a threat wrapped in velvet. Instead, it sounded like a confession.
I kissed him, not knowing what else to do with the tangle of emotions knotting in my chest. Because words felt inadequate for whatever this was becoming between us. And he kissed me back like I was oxygen and he was a man drowning.
I’m not Mila Petrov anymore, the girl who wanted a quiet life far from violence and blood.
I’m Mila Lobanov.
And I was not sure if that was a triumph or a tragedy.