Chapter 6 Mikhail
Chapter six
Mikhail
The warehouse on the waterfront is a mix of rust, salt, and fear.
I stand in the center of the concrete floor with my sleeves rolled to the elbows, blood already drying on my knuckles.
Jayshaun Briggs’ crew has been harder to break than I expected.
Three of them kneel before me now—zip-tied, mouths bleeding, eyes wide with the animal knowledge that tonight they will not see dawn.
Dmitri holds the fourth man by the hair. Viktor stands to my left with a length of pipe resting casually against his shoulder like it’s an umbrella. The fifth lies face down in a spreading pool of his own blood. He talked too late.
“You think hiding your boss makes you loyal?” I ask quietly. My voice carries farther in the empty space than any shout ever could. “It only makes you stupid.”
The one in the middle—Marcus, twenty-four, corner boy with a teardrop tattoo under his eye—spits blood onto the floor. “We don’t know where Big Jay is. Swear on my mama.”
I crouch in front of him. Close enough to smell the piss that ran down his leg when Viktor broke his wrist twenty minutes ago. I study his face the way a butcher studies a cut of meat.
“Your mama’s been dead six years, Marcus. Overdose in the projects.” I tap two fingers against his temple. “You know how I know that? Because I make it my business to know everything about the men who think they can put a price on my woman’s head.”
He starts to cry. Not loud. Just silent tears mixing with the blood on his cheeks.
I rise. “Burn the bodies. Weigh them down. Drop them past the harbor buoys where the current runs strong. Make sure nothing washes back to shore before spring.”
Dmitri nods once. No questions. No hesitation. This is the tax we pay for power. This is the monster the city whispers about when my name is spoken in the dark.
I wipe my hands on a rag that used to be someone’s shirt. The scrapes across my knuckles are raw but superficial. A reminder. Blood always has a price.
“Find the brother,” I tell them as I walk toward the black SUV idling near the loading dock. “Jayshaun Briggs does not get to breathe the same air as my child. Not for long.”
The door slams behind me. The city swallows the warehouse and its screams as we drive away.
By the time the elevator opens into the penthouse, I’m drained. I fall into bed, pull her into my arms, and crash. Everything else can wait.
***
The bathroom light is too bright at six in the morning. Or maybe everything is too bright. I stand at the counter, razor in one hand, the scent of sandalwood shaving cream under my nose, and I see it.
Propped against the marble. A narrow white stick. Two pink lines.
I know what it is before my brain gives it a name. I have ordered men to their deaths with less ceremony than this plastic wand demands. My reflection in the mirror looks shocked. The Pakhan does not show shock. But alone, in the glass, I let myself feel it.
A child. My child. Growing inside her.
I pick it up. The plastic is still faintly warm from her grip. She was here not long ago, pissing on this stick while I slept in the next room. And then she left it here. Not hidden in the trash. Not wrapped in tissue to spare me. Just… placed. Like a question she is too afraid to ask.
I set it down exactly where she left it.
I give her the day. More than a day. I give her silence, space, the room to circle whatever she is feeling without my shadow pressing against it.
She doesn't mention it at breakfast. She stirs her tea—chamomile now, no more caffeine—and stares at the harbor until the steam dies.
We eat a silent dinner. She pushes food around her plate.
Her eyes are rimmed with dark circles, and every time I look at her, she finds a reason to look away.
Smart girl. Brave girl. Terrified girl.
Night falls heavy. I finish my work in the study, signing away lives and laundering money. When I enter the bedroom, she is already there.
The lamp is off. The city bleeds blue through the windows, painting her skin in false twilight. She is on her side, facing the wall, the sheet pulled to her chin. But she is not asleep. I know her breathing now—the rhythm of her rest, the hitched cadence of feigning.
I undress. Shirt. Trousers. The gun goes in the safe. I slide beneath the sheets and fit myself behind her, my chest to her back, my knees tucked into the bend of hers. She is rigid. A board. A barrier.
She stays on her side, curled slightly away from me. The distance feels deliberate. I don't close it. Not yet.
The silence stretches, thick as winter fog off the harbor.
Then, in a small voice I barely recognize as hers:
"Do you still want to have sex with me?"
The question is a live grenade. I turn my head on the pillow. She's staring at the ceiling, jaw tight, waiting…
I almost laugh. She says the dumbest shit sometimes.
Instead of answering with words, I roll toward her.
Pulling her against me until her body fits flush to mine.
One hand finds her hip under the shirt. My palm slides up, slow and deliberate, cupping the weight of one breast, thumb brushing over her nipple until it pebbles.
She inhales sharply but doesn't pull away.
I press my mouth to the side of her neck, tasting clean skin and the faint trace of my own soap on her.
"Riley," I growl. "Shut up."
I peel the nightshirt off her slowly, with more care than I’ve ever given anything.
My hands map every inch of her—shoulders, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips that already feels just the slightest bit softer.
I drag my mouth along her shoulder, tracing the strap down with my teeth.
Her breath catches. I hook my thumb under the waistband of her shorts and slide them down, slow, unhurried, letting the fabric scrape against her skin so she feels every inch of the descent.
When I settle between her thighs and taste her, she gasps a curse. Or a prayer? I take my time, licking and sucking until her legs shake and her fingers are twisted in my hair, until she comes with a broken sob.
Then I slide into her, slow and deep, one arm braced beside her head so I can watch her face. She never looks away. For once, she lets me see. Riley—open, trembling, taking every inch of me like she was made for it.
Later—how much later, I do not know—the room is fully dark. The city lights have dimmed. She is still awake.
I withdraw my hand from where it has been resting on her thigh. I turn her gently, arranging her on her back. She lets me. Her eyes are huge in the dark, reflecting the thin slice of moon through the window.
I lower my head. I press my lips to her stomach. Gliding my tongue over the flat skin that cradles our child. Then I rest my cheek there and begin to caress her belly with my palm. Slow circles. I nuzzle into her navel.
She is quiet for so long, I think she has fallen asleep. She breaks the silence.
"Are you happy?" she whispers.
I lift my head. Her eyes are open, watching me.
"Yes," I say. Surprising myself with the easy truth.
She swallows. Her hand comes up, hesitates, then settles in my hair. "Tell me why you want this."
I know what she is asking. Not the contract. Not the deal. The child.
I give her an easy answer. "It's time," I say.
She does not accept it. Her fingers tighten in my scalp. "No. That's not it. That's what men say when they don't want to explain. Tell me. Really, tell me."
I lift onto my elbow and study her face. I have thought about it. Asked myself, why? She's asking me to say my answers aloud. Answers, I'm still putting together even as she pulls them from me.
"I want a child to carry my name past the grave.
To inherit what I bled for. I want… I want to build something that cannot be shot, cannot be burned, cannot be taken by the FBI, or buried in concrete.
I want an heir who makes the Ismailovs look like peasants.
" I stop. Start again. "I want to look at someone and see my own eyes looking back.
I want to matter enough that someone remembers me when I am gone. "
I exhale through my nose. My fingers press a little firmer against her skin, as if I could already feel the heartbeat beneath.
"I want a child to carry my legacy," I say. "To continue the name. To build something that doesn't die when I do. The Ismailovs have sons who look at their father like he's immortal. I want someone who carries my blood, my strength, my—"
"Stop."
Her fingers press against my lips. Gentle. Absolute. I still.
"All of that," she whispers, "is just noise. Legacy. Dynasty. Names in stone." She shifts closer, her palm replacing her fingers, cupping my jaw. "You want a child for one reason, Mikhail."
She holds my gaze. Her thumb traces my cheekbone.
"You want someone to love," she says. "And who'll love you back."
The air leaves my lungs.
I stare at her. Into her. She has reached into my chest and pulled out the organ I swore I did not possess, and she is holding it up to the light, examining it with those brown eyes that have seen every kind of darkness and somehow never turned cold.
I cannot respond. My throat is a vault.
We lie suspended in the dark, her hand on my face and my hand on her belly, two people who traded in transactions now trading in truths neither of us can afford.
Finally, I ask in a gruff voice. "Are you happy?"
She doesn't answer. The silence extends. I count her blinks. A tear escapes the corner of her eye, tracking silently into her hairline.
"It's not mine," she says at last. Her voice is flat. "It's yours. For me, this is just a job, remember?"
The words are a blade. She stabs herself as much as me.
I don't respond. She lies; I know it now. She lies because admitting the truth is to break the contract, and the contract is all that keeps her safe from wanting me.
But she does not look away. She watches me watch her, and her breath hitches.
She swallows hard. Her eyes find mine again, wet but steady.
"I'm happy to give this to you," she whispers. "You're the first person who's ever seen me and seen something in me. Not just a foster kid. Not another state check. You saw… me. So yeah. I'm happy to give you this."
Our eyes stay locked. The city hums far below us. My hand curves on her belly, into an open fist. Protective.
I don't have words for what she just handed me. So I kiss her instead—slow, deep, grateful. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers.
"My Baby Girl," I murmur against her lips.
She smiles. Small. Real. The kind of smile that could thaw frozen ground.
And for the first time in my life, legacy doesn't feel like something I have to take.
It feels like something we're building together. I close my eyes and feel her heartbeat against mine, and for the first time in my life, I am not alone.