Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hailey
It was two-thirty in the morning. Viktor was out handling work, and the apartment was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking off each second.
I sat cross-legged on the huge Italian leather sofa, a slab of jet-black, top-grade Italian calfskin spread over my knees. Warm lamplight pooled over my hands while I bit my lower lip and guided a medium-gauge steel needle through the pre-punched holes along the edge.
Tomorrow was Viktor's birthday.
It was the first time I'd ever celebrated his birthday with him.
I knew he didn't need a damn thing. His closet was packed with Savile Row suits. His garage held limited-edition supercars. His world ran on expensive cigars and rare liquor. If I blew my entire savings on a Rolex or an Hermès tie, it would still be one more drop in his ocean of luxury.
So I decided to make something with my own hands.
When he'd held me tight on the terrace last night, his hands had slid over my back. Those hands could take control of any room in a heartbeat, but the knuckles and palms were rough—hard, stubborn calluses.
It made my chest ache.
I told myself it came from years of Wall Street pressure, and from him beating the hell out of a bag in the gym to burn it off.
I wanted to protect those hands.
I sucked in a sharp breath and yanked my hand back.
I'd spaced out. The needle tip punched straight into the pad of my left index finger. A perfect, bright bead of blood popped up. I shoved the finger in my mouth and sucked hard, brow knotting from the sting.
My phone lay lit on the coffee table, still on a video call with Samantha.
"You stabbed yourself again?" Sam wore a green clay mask and held a glass of red wine, rolling her eyes so hard it was practically an Olympic event.
"Hailey, you have to be out of your mind.
You skip sleep to sew gloves for a billionaire at this ungodly hour.
Do you hear yourself? That sounds like some tragic soap opera from the last century. "
"Sam, you don't get it." I pulled my finger from my mouth and pressed a tissue to the tiny cut. "It isn't about money. It's about... I don't know. Meaning. I want him to know I notice everything—down to the calluses he's earned."
"Calluses he's earned?" Sam snorted and took a sip. "Please, babe. You really think he got those from typing too hard? Whatever. Women in love are blind as hell. I bet tomorrow the tyrant sees those gloves and drops to one knee with a diamond the size of a damn pigeon egg."
"Stop talking crap, Sam." My face heated, and even then sweetness rippled through me like I couldn't help it.
If Viktor opened this... what would his face look like?
"Alright, I'll let you get back to your epic romance project. Text me after work tomorrow. I want details." She lifted her glass. "Night, Juliet."
"Night, Sam."
After I ended the call, I drew a steadying breath, picked up the needle and thread, and fought through the last stretch of stitching.
When the clock hand hit 3:15 a.m., I finally bit off the last little tail of thread.
I laid the black leather gloves flat on the coffee table and studied them. The seam along the inside of the thumb wobbled a little—nothing like the custom pairs that cost thousands—but the leather felt soft and tough at the same time.
I smiled, and the exhaustion just fell away.
I wrapped the gloves in deep blue tissue paper and slid them into a matte black gift box that felt expensive just to touch. Then I tied it with a silver-gray ribbon.
Done.
I could barely wait for morning.
The next afternoon.
Inside Ivanov Group headquarters, the air still crackled with that high-pressure, teeth-grinding grind.
At 3:30, I hammered out the last summary on the financial report, hit send, and got up. I headed straight for my new team lead, Brenda.
"Brenda, I finished everything for today." My voice came out tight as I stood at her desk. "I want to ask... can I take two hours and leave early?"
Brenda lifted her head from the stack of files and looked at me over her black-framed glasses.
Ever since Natalia had been fired and I'd come back—moved back into the office Viktor had personally set up—everyone in the building knew exactly how much I mattered to the man on the top floor.
Brenda's mouth curved, like she knew the punchline already.
"Of course, Hailey. Today is Mr. Ivanov's birthday, right?" She winked, light and easy. "Go. Have a good night."
"Thank you, Brenda!"
I flashed her a grateful smile and practically jogged back to my desk. I dug the carefully wrapped black box from the deepest part of my drawer, hugged it to my chest, grabbed my bag, and rushed for the elevators.
I wasn't giving it to him in that cold, glassy office upstairs. I wanted a real surprise.
I pressed the button for the VIP garage on B3.
As the elevator dropped, my heart pounded harder and harder. I ran the scene through my head a hundred times. I'd slip to his car, wait for him to come down, then jump out, shove the gift into his arms, and say, "Happy birthday."
The doors slid open on B3.
Cold, damp air hit me—garage chill mixed with gasoline and burned rubber. This area was for executives, almost always empty. Right now it felt wrong-quiet. Only the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with that thin electric hum.
My heels clicked as I stepped out, the sound sharp against the concrete.
I didn't want to give myself away. I slowed, and at the corner by Section B I stopped, slipped off my heels, and carried them in my hand. Barefoot, I padded over the icy floor, moving toward Viktor's reserved spot.
From a distance, I saw it—his familiar black armored Maybach tucked into a shadowed corner ringed by thick support columns.
He was still here. The car was still here, which meant he hadn't left yet.
A little thrill sparked in me. My fingers tightened around the box as I pressed close to a huge concrete pillar and leaned to peek, just to see if he was inside.
And then—
A dull, ugly sound cracked through the silence.
It wasn't loud. More like someone smacking a sack of flour. Or an overinflated tire letting out a thick, dead thump. And right after it came the sickening sound of weight hitting the ground.
I froze. The smile on my face died in an instant.
What the hell was that?
Something primal screamed in my head. I held my breath, back flattened to the cold, rough concrete, heart slamming so hard it felt like it might tear out of my throat.
I forced myself to tilt my head, just a little, and look past the edge of the pillar toward the open space beside the Maybach.
My blood drained.
In front of the car—less than six feet away—lay a man.
He wore a cheap gray suit. His body jerked in a twisted, broken way. The back of his head had been blown open, a disgusting crater. Red and white slurry sprayed across the pale concrete, spreading fast into a pooling, nightmare-bright lake.
A few seconds later, the twitching stopped.
He became a body.
My pupils shook. My throat felt like somebody had shoved a rusted blade down it. Even breathing hurt.
But what shattered me wasn't the corpse.
It was the person standing beside it.
Viktor.
His back was to me. He'd already taken off his perfectly tailored suit jacket and tossed it onto the Maybach's hood. He wore only a crisp white dress shirt.
Except it wasn't crisp anymore.
Blood speckled the collar, the chest, even his neck and the side of his face.
Under the fluorescent lights, it looked too red. Too real. Like the kind of red that stole all hope.
He turned, and his profile slid into view.
It was Viktor—the same man who'd held me last night, murmuring sweet things into my ear. But the expression on his face now felt bone-deep wrong. Like I'd never met him once in my life.
No anger. No panic. Not a flicker of human warmth.
His jaw sat tight as ice. His pale blue eyes—those eyes that usually looked at me like I mattered—were dead cold, like endless Siberian permafrost. He glanced down at the bleeding body like it was trash on the sidewalk.
Then he raised his right hand.
He held a handgun—matte black, with an extended suppressor.
I stared at it, and my stomach seized.
He hit the mag release, slid the magazine out to check it, pushed it back in. Clean. Automatic. Then he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and, calm as a man polishing silver, started wiping blood off the barrel.
Careful. Patient.
Like it was art.
He had killed someone.
And he hadn't done it for the first time. The ease, the routine, the terrifying lack of feeling—every second screamed the truth at me: taking a life means nothing to him. Less than stepping on an ant.
Terror clamped my throat like a giant hand. I slapped both palms over my mouth, smothering the scream trying to tear out of me.
Tears blurred everything. My whole body shook like it was going to come apart.
I tried to back away. I tried to run from this hell.
But my legs turned to mush. As I shifted, my heel caught the edge of a speed bump.
I stumbled.
The black gift box—the thing I'd treated like it held my heart—slipped from my shaking fingers.
It hit the concrete with a sharp, clean sound. The gloves spilled out. The silver-gray ribbon fluttered down, pathetic and weightless in the bloody air.
In this dead, empty garage, that sound might as well have been a bomb.
Viktor's hand stopped mid-wipe.
Like a top predator interrupted while feeding, he snapped his head around. Those icy blue eyes locked onto the source with brutal precision.
Locked onto me behind the pillar.
Time stopped.
The cold violence on his face hadn't faded yet. It crashed straight into my terror.
The instant he realized it was me, his pupils tightened. His whole body went rigid.
"Hailey."
He said my name in a low, rough voice. The usual warmth was gone. The sound echoed across concrete and steel, heavy with something that made my skin crawl.
He stepped toward me, the gun still in his hand.
Don't come closer.
The words screamed in my head. Survival finally punched through the paralysis.
I spun and ran—barefoot, leaving my heels behind without a second thought—feet slapping cold, gritty concrete as I sprinted for the elevators like my life depended on it.
Because it did.
"Hailey! Stop!"
Viktor's shout ripped through the garage—panicked and furious—followed by the heavy, relentless thud of his footsteps.
He was chasing me.
The same man who'd just killed someone without blinking was chasing me.
My heart battered my ribs like it wanted out. My lungs burned empty, and every breath tasted like metal.
Fifty yards. Thirty. Ten.
The elevator doors came into view—cold silver—like the only gate left to heaven.
I lunged at it, slamming the up button over and over, sobbing like I'd lost my mind.
"Open! Please—open!"
"Hailey! Wait!"
His voice was closer. I could smell him now—thick blood, hot and sharp—wrapping around me as he closed in.
The doors finally opened.
I threw myself inside and whipped around, back against the wall, hammering the Close Door button with my fist.
"Close. Close. Close!"
The doors started to slide together.
When the gap shrank to less than two feet, Viktor hit the doorway.
His white shirt, streaked with blood, looked violent under the light. His eyes were wild—something I had never seen in him before. Panic. Desperation. He thrust a hand out, trying to stop the doors.
I stared at that hand.
That same hand that had cupped my face nights ago. That same big hand with rough calluses.
Now I knew.
Those calluses hadn't come from boxing or stress. They were the mark of a man who lived with a gun in his grip. A man who killed.
"No!"
I screamed and crumpled into the far corner of the elevator, breaking apart.
The sensor didn't catch him—or he moved too fast. The metal doors closed anyway, merciless, sealing him out along with his desperate shout.
The elevator jerked upward.
I slid down the cold wall and collapsed on the floor.
All the strength drained out of me at once. I dragged in air in ragged, shaking gulps, my body spasming like it couldn't decide whether to vomit or faint.
My mind kept replaying it.
The blown-open head. The blood. The suppressed gun. Viktor's eyes—empty, freezing.
My hands trembled as I fumbled for my phone.
My fingers shook so badly I could barely hit the right keys. It took me a few tries to unlock the screen and open Safari.
I bit my lip until it hurt and typed, letter by letter, like I was forcing my own sentence.
Viktor Ivanov
I didn't click the polished Forbes fluff anymore. I added words behind his name.
Underground. Violence. Rumors.
The second I hit search, the results poured out—dark corners, half-buried threads, anonymous posts pushed to the edge of the internet.
"The Ivanov family: Bratva behind a legal mask?"
"The true ruler of the East Coast underground. Pakhan Viktor."
"Russian Bratva's ultimate tyrant."
I stared at the bold, blood-red titles and the world tilted. My phone almost slipped out of my hand.
Bratva. Russian mob. Pakhan.
All the pieces snapped together in my head in the most brutal, gory way possible.
I finally understood.
I understood why, in that dark alley weeks ago, Matthew's face had gone pale when Viktor showed up—like he'd seen death itself. That hadn't been respect for some rich CEO. That had been fear of a man who could erase him whenever he felt like it.
I finally understood what Natalia had tried to tell me in the car.
She'd warned me. He wasn't a businessman.
The signs had been everywhere. The way the doctor had handled a gunshot wound like it was routine. The way Viktor lit up around violence like it fed something in his bones. The way his security moved like a fucking unit, armed with real weapons.
I had been a complete idiot.
I'd thought I'd fallen for a cold Wall Street shark who was somehow soft for me. I'd thought my love had reached some lonely part of him and healed it.
But the truth was, I had handed over my heart—my soul—no defenses, no hesitation—to a monster.
I had fallen in love with a killer.
A truly dangerous one. A mafia tyrant with blood on his hands.