Chapter 7
Selene
Iwake up in Cassius' arms, and for the first time in my life, everything feels right.
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, steady and strong.
Sunlight filters through the edges of the blackout curtains of his bedroom, painting golden stripes across our tangled bodies.
The sheets are silk, expensive, but they're nothing compared to the luxury of waking up next to him every morning.
I trace my fingers over the scars on his knuckles—evidence of violence that should terrify me but only makes me feel safer.
Each mark tells a story of someone who threatened what's his, someone who learned too late that Cassius Wolfe doesn't forgive.
This man has killed for me. Would kill for me again without hesitation.
The thought should disturb the girl I used to be.
Instead, it makes warmth pool low in my belly, makes me press closer to his heat.
"You're thinking too loud," his voice rumbles against my ear, rough with sleep and infinitely sexy.
"Just thinking about how different I am now." I press a kiss to his chest, taste salt and something uniquely him. "A year ago, I was terrified of my own shadow. I jumped at every sound, saw threats everywhere."
"And now?"
"Now I'm planning to help you destroy your enemies." The words come out fierce, certain. "Now I want to watch them burn."
His hand tightens in my hair, and I feel rather than see his smile. "My little wolf has grown teeth."
"I've always had teeth. I just didn't know how to use them."
He rolls me beneath him in one smooth movement, pinning me with his weight and those steel gray eyes.
The morning light turns them silver, beautiful and dangerous. "I need you to research Kirill Zhukhov. Everything you can find about his operations, his methods, his weaknesses."
"The Russian?" My mind immediately starts thinking about approaches. Legal databases, court records, FBI files, if I can access them. "What specifically are you looking for?"
"He's more dangerous than any enemy I've faced.
Uses psychological techniques, targets families instead of just the ones in charge.
" His jaw tightens, and I see something I've rarely witnessed in him—genuine concern.
"I need to understand how he thinks, what drives him. Men like him always have a weakness."
The protectiveness in his voice makes my chest tight with emotion.
He's worried about me, about us.
This powerful man, who fears nothing, is afraid of losing me.
"I'll find everything there is to know," I promise, reaching up to cup his face. "I still have contacts at the DA's office. People who trust me."
"Be careful. If anyone suspects you're feeding information to me—"
"They won't." I pull his mouth down to mine, kiss him with all the confidence I've built over the past year. "I've learned to lie very well. I can be whoever I need to be."
His eyes darken with pride and desire. "Show me."
For the next hour, he doesn't let me think about Russians or research or anything beyond the feel of his hands on my skin, his mouth claiming every inch of my body.
By the time he's finished with me, I'm boneless and gasping, thoroughly reminded of exactly who I belong to.
"Now go," he says, smacking my ass as I climb out of bed. "Be my perfect little spy."
Michelle Dravens looks exactly the same as she did six months ago when I finished my internship—sharp bob that never moves out of place, designer suit that screams ambition, calculating eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
She's everything I used to want to be: successful, respected, fighting for justice within the system.
Now she just looks naive.
The coffee shop across from the courthouse is busy with the morning rush, lawyers and clerks grabbing caffeine before heading into battle.
I chose it deliberately—public enough that our meeting looks casual, but noisy enough that no one will overhear sensitive information.
"Selene!" Michelle stands to hug me as I approach our corner table. "You look... different. Amazing, but different."
"Thank you." I slide into the booth, noting how she takes in my outfit—Armani blazer in midnight black, Louboutin heels that add four inches to my height, jewelry that costs more than most people's cars.
The transformation from eager intern to sophisticated professional is complete.
"The private sector has been good to me. "
"I was surprised when you called. Last I heard, you were still doing victim advocacy work? Though honestly, you look more like you should be running a Fortune 500 company."
I laugh, the sound perfectly calibrated to suggest I’m modestly embarrassed at her compliment. "Still advocating for victims, just with better resources now. That's actually why I wanted to see you."
Michelle raises an eyebrow, leaning forward with interest.
She always was drawn to challenging cases.
"I'm working with a client whose family is being threatened by Russian organized crime," I continue, letting genuine concern creep into my voice. "The usual escalating intimidation—pay up or family members start disappearing. But this feels bigger than a simple extortion case."
"How much bigger?"
"I think we're looking at Bratva involvement. The leader's name is Kirill Zhukhov. Ever heard of him?"
Michelle's expression sharpens, and I know I've hooked her.
She pulls out her phone, makes a note. "Zhukhov... that name sounds familiar, but I can't place it. I can run him through our databases, see what comes up. This is for potential court proceedings?"
"Potentially. Right now, I'm just trying to understand what we're dealing with before I advise the family how to proceed.
" The lie flows easily, naturally. I've gotten very good at this—reading people, telling them what they want to hear, manipulating them into giving me what I need.
"If it's really Bratva-level organized crime, they'll need federal protection, not just local police. "
"Smart thinking." Michelle nods approvingly. "The locals can't handle that level of sophistication. But Selene, if this family is really being threatened by the Bratva, they need to contact the FBI immediately. You're talking about people who make the Italian families look like choirboys."
"Of course. I just want to be fully informed before I make that recommendation. Knowledge is power, right?"
"Absolutely. Give me a day or two to compile everything. I'll pull criminal records, known associates, recent activities, the works."
We spend another twenty minutes chatting about her current cases, mutual acquaintances from my internship days, normal small talk that feels like speaking a foreign language now.
She tells me about her latest prosecution—a domestic violence case where the husband tried to claim self-defense.
I make appropriate sympathetic noises while thinking about how Cassius would handle a man who hit women.
Lionel would probably be involved, and pliers.
When we part, Michelle promises to fast-track what she has and call me as soon as possible with whatever she finds.
She hugs me goodbye, and I catch a whiff of her vanilla perfume—innocent, sweet—everything I'm not anymore.
Walking back to my car, I catch my reflection in a shop window.
Designer clothes, confident posture…predator's grace in every step.
The diamond collar at my throat catches the sunlight, beautiful and unmistakable.
I look exactly like what I am—a wolf in expensive clothing.
I love it.
Michelle calls the next evening while I'm getting ready to see Cassius.
I'm standing in front of my full-length mirror, applying red lipstick that looks like blood against my pale skin, when her ringtone cuts through the quiet.
"Selene, this Zhukhov guy is bad news. Really bad news."
I cap my lipstick and give her my full attention. "What did you find?"
"He runs the eastern seaboard operations for the Bratva.
Money laundering, human trafficking, arms dealing—you name it, he's got his fingers in it.
Known associates include half the FBI's most wanted list." Papers rustle in the background, and I can picture her at her cluttered desk, surrounded by case files.
"His rap sheet is extensive but he's never been successfully prosecuted. Too smart, too well-protected."
"What about his methods? How does he operate?"
"That's where it gets interesting. The Bratva is typically brutal but sloppy. They like sending messages, making examples out of people. Public executions, torture, hurting the loved ones of their enemies to the point they take out entire families."
My hand stills on my jewelry box. Something in her tone suggests there's more.
"But?" I prompt.
"But there's been a string of murders over the past decade that are being attributed to his organization, and they don't match the typical MO. These are clean kills. No witnesses, no loose ends, no dramatic statements."
"What kind of murders?"
"High-profile targets. Judges, prosecutors, city officials.
All people who were investigating organized crime or refusing to cooperate with criminal enterprises.
" Michelle pauses, and I hear her flipping through papers.
"The weird thing is, the evidence points to Russian involvement, but the execution suggests someone else entirely. "
My blood runs cold. "Someone else?"
"Local crime families, maybe. Someone with the skill to make it look Russian but the intelligence to avoid the typical Bratva mistakes. The Russians are brutal, Selene, but they're not subtle. These murders required finesse, planning."
Judges. She said judges.
"What judges?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears, tight and strained.
"Oh, let's see..." More paper rustling. "Judge Kowalski three years ago, Judge Schmidt five years back, Judge Deveraux nine years ago—"
The phone slips from my hand, clatters to the hardwood floor.
Michelle's voice continues, tinny and distant, but I can't process the words over the ringing in my ears.
Judge Deveraux. My father.
Someone's using Russian methods as cover for their own hits.