Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Viktor
Something small yanked me awake.
A door closing at the far end of the hall. A dull thud, like a stone dropped into deep water.
My eyes snapped open. My body locked up, instincts already braced for a hit.
But all I saw was the other half of the bed—empty. The woman who'd gone feral under me last night, all claws and teeth, was gone.
The air still reeked of musk and sweat, and that cheap, goddamn sweet vanilla she wore.
I sat up and pinched the bridge of my nose. The lazy, satisfied haze from last night died the second my gaze landed on the nightstand.
Two crumpled hundred-dollar bills sat under a hotel-logo notepad.
I reached out and lifted the paper with two fingers.
"Impressive technique. Buy yourself a decent breakfast. —H."
I stared at the line, making sure my head wasn't playing tricks from the booze.
Morning light washed the bedroom. Outside, the city spread out beneath the windows.
My city.
Every building with lights on held someone who owed me, feared me, or worked for me.
In this city, no one—no one—treated Viktor Ivanov like something you used and tossed.
And Hailey had treated me like a two-hundred-dollar escort.
It was the most fucked-up—and hilariously fucked-up—provocation I'd had in thirty-seven years.
I should've been furious.
I was furious. But under it, something else moved—an interest I hadn't felt in years, hot enough to burn.
I read the note again, amused.
Naive girl.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three taps. Perfectly measured. Controlled.
"Come in."
I tossed the money and the note back on the nightstand. Bare-chested, scratch marks raked across my skin, I crossed to the bar and poured straight vodka, no ice.
Yuri stepped in. Dark gray suit, sharp as a razor, eyes like a hawk. My second. My buddy. The guy who'd taken a bullet for me.
He glanced once at the shredded black dress on the floor and looked away like it wasn't there.
"Found him," he said in Russian. "The one feeding the precinct."
I stopped moving.
For three months someone had been dripping Ivanov Group shipping routes, customs windows, and names that never belonged on paper into some New York prosecutor's office. It had cost the Bratva plenty.
I swallowed the burn and rolled my shoulders. Whatever weird mood had clung to me a minute ago vanished.
"Who?"
"Anton Neil. Over at the warehouses. Dispatch." Yuri handed me a thin folder. "We watched him for six days. Every Wednesday night, he went to a bar in Queens and met a federal agent. It was solid."
"Anton Neil?" I let out a cold laugh, turned, and leaned back against the bar, turning the heavy crystal glass in my hand. "He'd been with me five years."
"Looks like the other side bought his loyalty." Murder flashed in Yuri's eyes.
"Get the car ready." I set the glass down and ran my tongue over my teeth. "I wanted to ask him myself whether the price those assholes paid covered the cost of betraying the Bratva."
I headed for the closet. Then I slowed at the nightstand.
I picked up the note and the two hundreds, turned back, and slapped them against Yuri's chest.
He caught them on reflex, then froze when he read the handwriting and saw the pathetic "payment." For a split second, his stone face cracked.
"Find her," I said, fire in my eyes. "I want the woman who walked into this room last night. Full name. Address. Everything from childhood on. I want it on my desk before sunset."
Yuri slid the mess into his inner pocket. "Understood, Pakhan."
The place sat by the water in Brooklyn—an abandoned meatpacking plant, one of my many businesses that never existed on any ledger.
As the car pushed toward the docks, the streets emptied out and the dark thickened. All that remained was the distant slap of waves and the low moan of passing boats. Yuri drove without a word—not because he had nothing to say, but because some things didn't need saying.
I rested against the headrest and rotated my shoulder.
The pointless irritation—the insane sex, the note, the barefoot woman bolting—fell away.
This? This was home.
Not whispering through a phone screen.
Not some stranger putting a two-hundred-dollar price tag on me.
Violence. Control. Consequences. I'd learned it with my head shoved down at seven years old. It was another way to spell "Ivanov."
The Bratva had one rule. Loyalty was the first, and it was the last.
Anton had broken it.
The car stopped. The air stank of rust, standing water, and something sweet-rotten—this kind of place never let that smell go. I stepped out into the bite of night. A single light over a corroded metal gate flickered, throwing our shadows across cracked concrete.
Yuri pulled the door open.
Anton sat tied to a metal chair in the middle of the room. Split lip. Blood dripping onto the floor. He heard us, forced his swollen eyes open, and the instant he recognized me, hope flashed across his face—then got swallowed by fear.
"Pakhan," he rasped.
I didn't rush.
I walked over slow, crouched in front of him, and met his eyes.
"Anton," I said softly, "you look like shit."
"Please..."
"Please what?" I tilted my head.
He blinked fast, panic turning solid in him. He knew. He knew exactly how this ended. He still tried. "I didn't—I didn't mean to—"
I clicked my tongue, stood, and straightened my cuff, then glanced at Yuri. "What do you think, my friend? An accident?"
Yuri didn't even blink. "In this business, there are no accidents."
Anton shook harder, his wrists straining under the rope.
I lifted a hand and cut him off.
"You fed our shipping routes to the prosecutor's office," I said, calm. "You thought those cops wouldn't talk. You thought we wouldn't find you." I crouched again, gripped the chair arms, and leaned in until my face was inches from his. "You were wrong."
His breathing turned thin and fast.
Good.
Fear was powerful.
But not enough.
I slid a hand inside my jacket, drew my gun, and pressed the cold metal under his chin.
He made a wet, broken sound.
"Now," I murmured, "you are going to tell me everything you knew."
He did.
Steel under the jaw drained the fight right out of him. His chest heaved like it was leaking air. "I had no choice," he shook hard enough to rattle the chair. "They came to me first! They said if I didn't give them something, they'd—"
I exhaled and rolled my shoulder again. "Anton."
The way I said his name made him flinch.
"They came to you," I repeated slowly, like I was trying to understand the impossible, "and you didn't come to me. You didn't go to Yuri. You decided the best move was selling out your own boys?"
"I—"
"Shh." I shook my head. The barrel traced up his cheek, slow—almost gentle—sketching the sweat-slick skin at his temple. "You want me to believe you did it to stay alive? You—someone who ate at my table, bled for my people, swore loyalty—had no choice?"
His throat bobbed hard. "No, it's not like that, I swear—"
I clicked my tongue.
"You are a terrible liar."
I let the moment stretch. I watched fear crawl over his face, watched it seep into his bones. Then I pulled the gun away.
Relief collapsed him. His chest surged.
Poor bastard.
He thought I was letting him live.
"You have family, don't you?" I asked like I didn't care, sliding the gun back into its holster.
He nodded fast, desperate, like it might buy him air. "Yeah—yeah. A daughter."
A daughter.
I breathed out through my nose and looked down at him. I wondered if he was thinking about her now, replaying the stories he'd told himself to justify his choices.
I crouched again, forearms on my knees.
"Tell me something," I said softly. "If your daughter grows up and betrays you the way you betrayed me, what would you do?"
Anton's face fell apart.
He didn't answer.
Because he knew.
There was only one answer.
I nodded, like that settled it. Then I stood and stepped back.
"Yuri."
Anton's scream died before it cleared his throat.
A dull impact. A body going slack. The scrape and crash of the chair tipping.
Then nothing.
Just blood tapping the concrete.
Yuri stepped back, flicked his wrist with practiced ease, and wiped the blade clean.
I flexed my fingers and walked out of the warehouse into the cold night air again. Neither of us spoke. The city in the distance kept roaring, clueless. The sky stayed black, the salt stink and rust heavy in my nose.
The car waited. Yuri opened the door. I slid into the back seat and sank into leather.
Anton was gone. One less name on the list. One less traitor breathing in my city.
I closed my eyes against the headrest.
And still—damn it—my mood didn't improve. It got worse.
Anton's betrayal was only the tip. The Council of Elders had been getting restless, trying to push their hands into my core business. I hated losing control. I hated variables that challenged my authority—whether it was business, or... the woman from last night.
I was about to pour whiskey to take the edge off that blood-hungry aftertaste when Yuri, in the passenger seat, turned and handed me a thin manila folder.
"The file you wanted. The woman from last night."
My hand froze mid-pour.
The Maybach rolled smooth through Manhattan's night. Inside, it was quiet except for the soft hiss of tires on asphalt. I took the folder and flipped it open.
A bland photo stared back at me. The woman in it wore a stiff gray button-up, black hair pulled back tight. Green eyes that tried too hard to look polite, careful, good.
She looked nothing like the slutty little devil in my memory—the one who'd straddled me, screaming for me to "ruin" her.
Hailey Woods. Twenty-six. Data analyst at some average company.
"Clean as fresh paper," Yuri reported from the front. "Parents divorced, both remarried. No gang ties, no competitor connections. Not even a parking ticket. Worth noting—she applied to our company before."
My eyes dropped to one line near the bottom. I huffed a laugh.
"Matthew? Assistant District Attorney?"
Yuri nodded. "Her ex-fiancé. Engagement just ended. He cheated."
An assistant DA with a halo in public and rot underneath. That was the man she'd spent four years tiptoeing around, shrinking herself to please?
No wonder she snapped last night. No wonder she came apart under me like she wanted to tear the world open.
Something ugly and hungry flared in my chest—a need to own her completely, to peel off every layer of her mask.
I pulled out my phone and typed in the number from the file.
Me: You left something behind.
Less than ten seconds later, the screen lit up. Three little dots flashed like crazy.
Unknown number: Who is this? How did you get my phone number?
The tone was wary. Sharp, even. Good.
Me: I'm from last night. You left in a hurry. You left something.
The "typing" indicator appeared, vanished, appeared again. I pictured her on the other end—face burning, thighs clenched, her mouth trying to bite while her brain replayed her running barefoot.
The image tugged at the corner of my mouth.
Unknown number: I didn't leave anything. I paid what I owe.
She meant the two hundred.
Me: About that.
Me: Maybe I should have been offended.
Unknown number: Then call it even. You didn't ask my permission either, so... whatever. Even.
Me: Too bad, sweetheart. It isn't even.
Me: Your price was too low.
She didn't respond for a long time.
I thought I'd spooked her. Then—
Unknown number: Are you running a scam, mysterious Mr. X?
Me: Mr. X?
Unknown number: Like those ridiculously evil secret underground organizations. They all use code names.
I laughed under my breath. Up front, Yuri glanced at me in the rearview like he thought I'd finally lost my mind. I felt too good to care.
Me: Are you accusing me?
Me: Because the one who got hurt last night wasn't you.
Unknown number: ...
Unknown number: What do you want?
Me: Relax, princess. I just want to talk.
Unknown number: "Princess" sounds like something a medieval fossil would say. Do guys like you really talk to women like that?
I could practically see her rolling her eyes at her phone. My mouth lifted on its own.
Me: I hope you like it. I don't mind treating you like my princess.
This time she went quiet for a while. A full five minutes passed before she finally sent back a dry little line.
Unknown number: That sounds very friendly. Am I supposed to say it's an honor?
I chuckled.
Me: Keep my number. We'll see each other again soon.
I saved her contact and tossed the phone aside. My mood flipped, like a switch. The beast in my chest that had been roaring about betrayal settled from a handful of useless texts.
If she'd had the nerve to knock on my door and light me up with that clumsy, irresistible little challenge, she didn't get to crawl back into her boring, safe life.
"Yuri," I said.
"Yes, Pakhan."
"Notify HR. First thing tomorrow morning, I want an interview invitation in Hailey Woods' inbox."
Yuri hesitated. For once, his voice carried a hint of surprise. "Our group? But Pakhan, her resume doesn't come close to meeting our analyst entry standard..."
"Then make up a reason for an exception. Offer double the salary." I cut him off, flat and final. "Put her in the most core Finance and M&A department."
Yuri looked at me once. "Understood. I'll handle it."
I looked back down at the file.
Hailey Woods.
She wanted to run back to her safe, boring little comfort zone? Dream on.
I would build her a cage out of money, power, and a hunger she couldn't fight. I would watch her walk into it step by step until she finally understood—outside of my side, she didn't belong anywhere.
This game had been deadly from the start, and the control had never been in her hands.