Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Laurel
I burst through the front door, bare feet slapping against the cold marble of the foyer, then the rough stone of the driveway. I don’t care that I’m barefoot, that I’m only in Leonid’s oversized shirt and nothing else. I just need to get away. As far and as fast as possible.
My lungs burn. My heart is a frantic hammer in my chest. I can still see it—the blood, the way the man’s body dropped like a sack of meat. Leonid didn’t even blink. Just raised the gun and ended a life like it was nothing.
The man I love is a murderer.
I make it maybe twenty steps down the long driveway before strong arms clamp around my waist from behind. I’m yanked off my feet, slammed back against a hard chest. I thrash—elbows, heels, nails—trying to break free.
“Laurel, calm down,” Leonid’s voice growls low against my ear, tight with strain.
“Let me go!” I scream, voice cracking. “Let me go, Leonid!”
He doesn’t. His grip only tightens, iron bands across my ribs, careful not to crush but impossible to escape.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, turns, and strides back inside.
The door slams shut behind us. I keep fighting, kicking, sobbing, but he’s too strong.
He carries me through the foyer, up the stairs, down the hallway, straight back to the bedroom.
He kicks the door closed and finally sets me down on the rug. The second my feet touch the floor I stumble back, putting space between us.
He raises both hands, palms out. “Please. Just breathe. Calm down.”
“Calm down?” My voice breaks on a hysterical laugh. “I just watched you kill someone! What the hell, Leonid? You shot him. In the head. Without even flinching!”
He takes a deep, slow breath, like he’s forcing himself to stay controlled. “I’m sorry you saw that.”
“That’s not the point!” I shout, tears streaming hot down my face. “You killed him! You murdered him in cold blood!”
“He assaulted you.”
“That doesn’t mean he should die for it!”
Leonid pins me with a dark look. “He touched you. I can’t stand another man putting his hands on you. Ever.” He steps closer. I take an automatic step back. “I never meant for you to see it. But I’m not sorry he’s dead. He touched what’s mine. He had to pay for it.”
I stare at him, really stare. The calm in his voice. The lack of remorse in his eyes.
“That wasn’t your first time, was it?” My voice comes out small, trembling. “Killing someone.”
Silence stretches between us. My stomach drops. The pause is answer enough. I take another step back, hitting the edge of the dresser. My hands grip the wood behind me to keep from falling.
“Leonid…” My voice cracks. “How many?”
He exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s been expecting this question for a long time.
“Don’t lie to me,” I whisper. “Please.”
“I’d never lie to you,” he says quietly. “No. It wasn’t the first time.”
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp. “How many?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “How many people have you killed?”
He gives a single, slow shake of his head. “Don’t ask me that.”
“Why not?” My voice cracks. “I deserve to know, don’t I? After what I just saw?”
He exhales through his nose, arms still folded across his chest like he’s bracing himself. “Because the number doesn't change anything. It doesn’t make it easier for you to hear.”
I swallow hard. My throat feels raw. “Why do you even have a gun?”
“Because of the line of work I’m in.”
I almost laugh. “You’re in hospitality. A real estate mogul. How does that involve guns and killing people?”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he nods toward the bed. “Take a seat.”
I don’t want to obey him. I don’t want to do anything he says right now. But my legs are trembling so badly I’m afraid they’ll give out. I sink onto the edge of the mattress, hands clenched in my lap, watching him. He stays by the door, arms still crossed, shoulders tense.
He takes a deep breath, like he’s gathering pieces of himself he’d rather keep buried. “Have you ever heard of the Bratva?”
I blink. “Yeah. Isn’t that… the Russian Mafia?”
He nods once. “You’re right.”
The room tilts. My stomach lurches as I immediately realize where this is going.
“You’re in the Russian Mafia?” The words taste like ash.
Another nod. “I’m the Pakhan of the New York Bratva.”
I gasp so hard it hurts. “What?”
He doesn’t repeat it. He just watches me, waiting for the realization to finish sinking in.
“So you’re not… you’re not a businessman like the rest of the world thinks?
” My voice is barely above a whisper. I had always assumed the bodyguards, the men who moved like an army guarding his estate, were there because of his immense wealth.
It never once crossed my mind that his power ran deeper, that he was the king of the Bratva!
“I am,” his tone is calm, measured. “But that isn’t all I do.”
“It’s a cover.” The words fall out of me. “You use your businesses as a front. The hotels, the real estate, the investments, all of it. It’s just… camouflage.”
He doesn’t deny it.
I press my palms to my thighs, trying to stop them from shaking. “So you lied to me. This whole time.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you.”
“What difference does that make?” My voice rises. “You let me believe you were just some wealthy, legitimate businessman. You let me fall in love with a version of you that doesn’t exist.”
“I was going to tell you.” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “I was waiting for the right moment.”
I let out a short laugh. “The right moment? I had to find out by watching you shoot a man in the head in your basement.”
“I never wanted you to see that side of me,” he says.
“But I did.” Tears burn behind my eyes again. “And now I can't unsee it. I can't un-know it.” I sighed, the sound ragged and defeated, and wrapped my arms tighter around my knees like that would hold me together.
“All my life,” I whisper, “I’ve been surrounded by violent men.
My mom always dated the worst ones, guys on the wrong side of the law, guys who hit first and asked questions later.
Then she married one. My stepfather. He was…
bad, violent, cruel. The second I had enough money saved and I was old enough, I left. I swore I’d never end up like her.”
My throat burned. I forced the words out anyway.
“But I did. I dated Jasper. He was just like my stepfather—quick to anger, quicker with his fists. Always in trouble with the police. When he hit me the last time, I left. I made a promise to myself: no more men like that. Never again. I’d rather be alone forever.
” I looked up at him, tears blurring the edges of my vision.
“I’m sorry about that, baby.” His voice drops, low and steady. “Tell me what happened. With your stepfather. With your ex. All of it.”
I stare at him. “Why? You’re going to kill someone again? Leonid, are you even listening to me? How does this make you any different from them?”
“I’m not like them, Laurel,” he says, voice low and fierce. “You know that, baby. Deep down, you know.”
I shook my head, tears spilling over. “You’re on the wrong side of the law. You kill people. And now you’re about to kill my ex and stepfather.”
“I only hurt people who deserve it.” His eyes don’t waver.
“I don’t go around murdering innocents. I don’t hurt women.
I don’t hurt kids. I protect what’s mine, and I make sure the people who threaten that don’t get a second chance.
” He reached out slowly, brushing a strand of hair from my wet cheek with the back of his knuckles.
“And I’d cut off my limbs before I ever raised a hand to you,” he says, voice cracking just a little.
“You have to believe that. I'd never hurt you.”
I looked into his eyes, and I do believe him. I believe he’d never hurt me. Not on purpose. But the rest…
“I love you,” he says simply. “You know that.”
"I know..." I whispered, avoiding his gaze.
Then he leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, but I didn't, and he pressed his lips to mine. Tentative. Careful. Like he was afraid I’d move away.
I don’t pull away. I let him kiss me. He deepens it gradually, lips parting, tongue brushing mine, one hand cupping my jaw like I’m something fragile and priceless.
He rises, lifting me with him in one smooth motion, and then lays me down gently, never breaking the kiss.
Clothes come off slowly. His hands are reverent as he peels away the rest of his own clothes.
He settles over me, weight braced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush me.
His eyes never leave mine as he nudges my thighs apart, and he notches himself at my entrance.
He slides in slowly, inch by inch, watching my face the whole time. Like he’s trying to pour every unspoken thing into my body. He kisses me again, deep, languid, then pulls back just enough to speak against my lips.
“I love you, solnyshko,” he breathes, hips rolling in that perfect, devastating rhythm. “I love you.”
I cry out, soft, broken, his mouth catching the sound, swallowing it as pleasure coils tight and bright inside me. He keeps moving, slow, deep, murmuring words in Russian against my skin. The words, the feel of him, the way he holds me like I might disappear—it’s too much.
I shatter. Hard. Loud. My nails dig into his back, my legs lock around him, and I come with a sob that he muffles with another kiss, deep and claiming and tender all at once. He follows a heartbeat later, groaning my name into my neck, hips stuttering as he spills inside me.
We stay like that, tangled, breathless, hearts hammering against each other. He doesn’t pull out. Just holds me, forehead pressed to mine, breathing like he’s run a marathon.
“I love you,” he whispers one more time.
I wake slowly, with the urge to use the restroom. My hand reaches out instinctively for Leonid, but the other side of the bed is empty. I blink against the evening sun slanting through the blinds, and my eyes land on a folded piece of paper on his pillow.
I pick it up.
Solnyshko, Out running a few errands. Back soon. Food’s in the microwave. I love you. L.
The words blur as tears pool in my eyes. Errands. What kind of errands? Is he out there right now, cleaning up this morning’s mess? Disposing of the body? My stomach twists violently.
I sit up, clutching the note so hard the paper crinkles. All those “business trips” he used to take—days, sometimes a week—was he out killing someone too?
I can’t do this. I was a teacher... I can't wrap my head around his identity or his world yet. Not this fast. Tears spill over. I swipe them away angrily, swing my legs out of bed, and walk to the closet on autopilot. I just need some time to be alone. I need to clear my head, and I can’t do that if I’m here.
A pair of jeans, some tops, underwear, the small duffel I kept here. I leave everything else—the dresses, the shoes, the jewelry. I love him. God, I love him. But I can’t stay.
I zip the bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head downstairs. I’m three steps from the front door when a voice stops me cold.
“Leaving already?”
I turn and stare right at Leonid's replica. Igor is rising from the couch in the living room—same dark hair, same sharp jaw, same broad shoulders as Leonid, just a few inches shorter. He’s watching me with those familiar blue eyes, expression unreadable.
Of course. Leonid wouldn’t leave me alone after this morning. He asked his brother to keep watch.
“Yes,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “Are you going to stop me?”
Igor shakes his head once. “Not against your will.”
I study him, searching for the lie, waiting for him to block the door. But he just stands there, hands loose at his sides.
“Can I at least drive you wherever you’re going?” he asks. “Leonid will have my head if I let you walk out alone.”
I glance at my phone. The ride I ordered is still ten minutes away. “There's no need, I…”
“Laurel, please, let me drop you off.”
“Fine,” I mutter.
He nods, grabs his keys from the coffee table, and opens the door for me. Outside, the air is crisp. His car is parked closest, a black sports car that growls to life when he unlocks it. I slide into the passenger seat; he gets behind the wheel.
Igor pulls out of the driveway. For a minute we drive in silence. He breaks the quiet first. “You know Leonid’s going to be pissed when he finds out you’re gone.”
I stare out the window. “He’ll be fine.”
Another beat.
“He loves you,” Igor says quietly. “More than I’ve ever seen him love anything. Including himself.”
My throat tightens. I love him too.
Later that night, the doorbell rings, insistent, three times in quick succession. My heart lurches into my throat. I already know who it is.
I pad to the door in socks, peer through the peephole, and there he is: Leonid, hair slightly wind-tousled, jaw set like he’s bracing for war. His eyes are shadowed with worry. I don’t open the door.
“Laurel,” he says through the wood, voice low. “Open the door. Please.”
I press my forehead against the cool surface, palms flat on either side of the peephole. “No. Please go away.”
Silence stretches. Then, quieter: “I just need to see you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter. “Go home, Leonid.”
“I’m not leaving until we talk.”
I close my eyes. “There’s nothing left to say. Please just go.”
The words land like stones between us. Another beat of silence, longer this time. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher, edged with something raw.
“You’re ending us? Just like that?”
The pain in his voice slices straight through me. I can see it even through the peephole, the way his shoulders slump just a fraction, the way his hand flexes at his side like he’s fighting not to break down the door. My chest aches so hard I can barely breathe.
I look away from the peephole, tears burning hot behind my eyelids. My hand trembles on the knob. I want to open the door. I want to fall into him and let him hold me until the world makes sense again. But I can’t.
“I’m not ending us, Leonid. It’s just… too much has happened all at once, and I need time alone to think.”
Silence.
Then: “Alright, but just so you know, I don’t give up on what’s mine.”