Chapter 25 #2
"Thought I’d find you brooding." She sips a hospital coffee that should be illegal.
"I’m strategizing," I correct.
"Brooding," she repeats, leaning against the opposite wall. She watches me the way she watches the world, like she’s picking the first man to kill if things go sideways.
"You’re quiet," she adds.
"What am I supposed to say?" My voice is gravel. "That my father used my brother as bait? That he tried to murder his own son for leverage? That he lied to me for three years because it made me easier to shape?"
She lifts a brow. "You forgot the part where he would’ve sacrificed you, too, if it served him."
My stomach drops. She's right. I just haven't looked at that angle yet.
"Men like your father don’t distinguish between sons. Only pawns and pieces." She says quietly.
I swallow something sharp. "I’m not his pawn."
"No," she agrees softly. "You’re the man who’s going to topple him."
I force my lungs open. My phone rings before I can reply; it's Dre. I step into the stairwell, where the signal is better and there are fewer cameras. I don’t wait for him to tell me why he's calling; whatever it is, it can wait. "What I tell you stays between us," I warn in lieu of a greeting.
"You got it." From my peripheral vision, I watch Oksana walk over to the nurse's station.
"I’m restructuring my father’s command."
An audible pause ensues, followed by, "About fucking time."
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been held for three years.
"I need men," I say. "Not his men. Mine."
"How many?"
"As many as I can trust."
"That’s not a number, Steph."
"It’s a kingdom," I answer. "Or the start of one."
Dre whistles low. "Alright, King. I’ll bring you soldiers who answer to no one but you."
"Good."
"And we’re doing this quietly?"
"Yes. Until it’s too late for him to stop it."
Dre chuckles darkly. "Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve been waiting for this version of you."
I grip the railing, surprised it's not a lie, because suddenly I feel freer than I have in years. "So have I."
Oksana returns, carrying two waters and a muffin that she probably forced someone to surrender. She hands me the muffin.
"For the hypoglycemia," she teases.
"I don’t have hypo—"
She raises a brow. "Eat the fucking muffin, Conti."
I eat it. She leans next to me and says, without looking, "You’re different."
"So are you."
"No." Her voice drops. "You’re different in a way that frightens me."
I turn my head toward her. "Why?"
Her eyes meet mine. "Because you look like a man who’s decided to win at any cost."
A beat where neither of us looks away follows, then her mouth curves—slow, wicked, infuriatingly honest. "You were sexy before," she murmurs.
"Attractive. Dangerous in that polished, boardroom-mafia way.
" Her gaze drags down my throat to my chest, like she’s mapping the new shape of me.
"But now?" She leans in, voice dropping to something that lights every nerve in me on fire.
"Now, you’re downright lethal. A killer wearing a king’s skin. And I shouldn’t say this but—fuck it—just looking at you is making me wet."
My brain stops. My entire body goes stone-hard, instant and brutal. She knows what she did. The little smile says so.
"That’s not helping," I manage, voice low.
"It’s not meant to." She shrugs, takes a sip of water as if she didn’t just detonate my self-control. "It’s meant to tell you the truth. I’m not scared of you, Stephano. I’m scared of what you might become if someone doesn’t keep a hand on your spine."
My mouth goes dry. "And you think that someone is you?"
She gives me a look that feels ancient and knowing, inhuman in its certainty.
"At times you wonder if I’m human," she says, like she’s reading my thoughts.
"I’m not sure I am. But I do know this—" She presses the cold bottle of water into my palm, anchoring me.
"Besides Nico, I’m the only thing standing between you and the kind of monster you could become after what you learned. "
The words slam into me with terrifying clarity. She’s right. Silence stretches. Charged. Electric. Her mouth curves, wicked and knowing. "Trust me, I’ve been there."
I know exactly what memory she’s pulling up, her father, cold as iron, telling her the only value she had was between her legs. The first time she told me that, something in me had snapped. How wrong that motherfucker had been.
Every part of Oksana is valuable.
Her mind? Brilliant.
Her instincts? Razor-sharp.
Her shot? Deadly.
Her loyalty? Rare.
Her presence? Steadying.
Her rage? Beautiful.
Her discipline? Terrifying.
Her chaos? Addictive.
She’s power wrapped in skin. A strategist. A killer. A storm. A woman the world should bow to, not break.
A real queen.
My queen.
Before I can speak, she takes my wrist—not gentle, not rough, exactly the way she touches everything—and drags my attention back to her eyes.
"You’re standing on the edge of becoming something new," she says. "Something dangerous. What you do with that? That’s on you. But I’m not afraid of it. I’m not afraid of you."
My breath punches out hard.
"And if the world is lucky," she adds, dropping her voice to a sinful purr, "I might even keep you from turning into the kind of monster your father tried to shape."
The words land like a vow. Like a brand. Like a crown.
For the first time since Nico said my father’s name, the hollow in my chest fills with something other than rage: Her.
She's right; she is the one person, besides Nico, that can keep me from turning the world red.
She tips her head. "So yes. You’re becoming something sharp. Something royal. Something ruthless."
Silence pools thick between us.
"And you like it," I say.
Her smile is pure sin. "I didn’t say I didn’t."
Two days later…
Gustave’s name lights up my phone like a red alarm and stays there, pulsing, while the jet eats miles of night on our way from New York to Mexico.
I flip the screen face-down on the armrest and let it buzz against the leather until voicemail drags his fury away.
It starts ringing again nine seconds later.
"What did he say this time?" Oksana asks without looking up. She’s cleaning a blade with a square of gauze that she liberated from the hospital.
The lighting is being kind to her bruises.
The old ones are mostly gone now, but the new ones spur renewed anger in me, wishing I could kill the fucker who did that to her.
The cabin lights cast gold along the edges of her red hair; she looks like a fiery angel who decided to learn to kill.
"Same hymn, louder choir," I answer. "Stop this madness. You have no idea what you’re doing. Bring my men home. You’re going to ruin us all."
Her mouth curves, not a smile. "He’s half right. You did take half his men."
"Half followed me," I correct. "There’s a difference." Then, because it matters, "The other half will come when they see we can actually end this."
"Hmm." She pinches the blade clean and slides it back into the ankle sheath, making my dick stand to attention. Why the hell is seeing a weapon on her so damn sexy? "Or when you bury the Venezuelan who signs their envelopes."
"Or when I bury the fucking Venezuelans, yes," I agree with a smile.
"Oh, I know that look," Oksana's tongue darts over her lips.
Her pupils dilate with the same desire that is running through my veins.
We haven't had any privacy in days, not really.
Supply closets and hospital bathrooms had become the only places we could let the tension between us snap.
Now I'm remembering that we're on my jet and that it has a private bedroom.
"Want to join the Mile High Club?" I raise an eyebrow.
She barks a laugh, slaps my arm, and shakes her head like I’m ridiculous and she adores me for it. Jealousy flickers sharp in my chest. I love this woman—all her edges, all her fire—but a selfish part of me wants to be her first in something. Anything.
The thought dissolves the moment she gets up.
She chose a tight dress this morning, one that shows every inch of her curves.
It's lime green, a perfect, deadly combination with her hair, which falls in soft curls down her back.
I watch the gentle sway of her ass, the outline of it under the skirt, and I'm ready to slay any dragon for her.
She doesn't stop, but she slows and looks provocatively over her shoulder at me. "Coming?"
She's already halfway to the bedroom by the time I catch up, heels clicking on the polished aisle. The jet turbulence throws her off balance, and she grabs a headrest, looks back at me with narrow, challenge-glinted eyes. She wants to be chased. Fuck, that's hot.
I close the gap and press her to the wall just inside the bedroom cabin, one hand braced near her face, the other roaming shamelessly down her flank. There’s a bed—a real bed—only a foot behind her, big enough for a king and then some. But I need her up against something hard first.
She’s panting, mouth open, tongue visible for a second. "You count as a club member if you do it every flight?" her voice dares, sharp as a blade.
"Only if you finish," I reply, pushing a knee between her thighs.
The dress has a slit, and my hands find the way.
I wedge it up to her hips, baring both ass and the faint V of her panties.
My palms cup her as I hike her up, and Oksana, always the overachiever, gets her legs around my waist without a wasted thought.
She bites my shoulder through my shirt, then my earlobe. I feel her teeth drag just enough to hurt. "You ever fuck a woman so hard she can’t walk to the runway car?" she growls.
I grin so wide my face hurts. "Going to make it a first for both of us."
I carry her to the bed, toss her down, and the bounce makes her snarl with laughter, that animal glee. "Get on your back," I order.
She props up on her elbows and raises one eyebrow. "Is that your best bedroom voice?"