Chapter 30
Alexei
Forty minutes later, I’m walking into the warehouse interrogation room where the stagnant air clings to the back of my throat, smelling of damp concrete and oxidized rust. Salome is tied to a metal chair in the dead center of the room, her hands secured behind her with biting zip-ties while one side of her face already blooms into a deep purple bruise - Nadia’s unmistakable handiwork.
In the far corner, Davit sits with his knees pulled tightly to his chest, his seven-year-old eyes wide and staring into the middle distance as if he’s trying to disappear into the shadows.
Oksana stands guard near the door and offers a sharp nod when she catches my eye. “Pakhan. She’s been difficult.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Makharadze,” I say, keeping my voice light against the gloom of the warehouse.
“Fuck you,” Salome spits, the words wet with spite.
I let out a genuine laugh, the sound bright and jarring in the hollow space.
“You want me to fuck you?.” All I can think about is Zoya last night—riding my face like she was trying to suffocate me, grinding that perfect pussy against my tongue until she squirted all over my chin.
Then begging me to fuck her ass while she touched herself, coming so hard around my cock she nearly passed out.
I shake my head, laughing. God damn, my wife must be heroin or something because I can’t think about anyone else.
I shake my head, grinning like a madman.
“I’m already mainlining the best drug in Moscow every night.
She’s fucking heroin. So no, sweetheart, you’re not even close to competition.
” I let a slow smile spread across my face.
“But points for trying. It’s a remarkably bold move considering the precarious nature of your current situation. ”
Her face flushes a deep, humiliated red, rage simmering just beneath the surface of her skin.
I ignore her for a moment, walking over to a large, jagged rock that sits on the concrete floor like a tombstone.
It’s a rough, gray thing about the size of a football, and I pick it up with a grunt of effort before placing it directly in the center of the room.
“Do you know what happened in Portugal?” I ask, not looking at her yet.
When she remains silent, I continue as I study the stone.
“My wife and I were attacked by five men who intended to rape her and kill me. During the struggle, my wife kicked one of them in the head with her wedge heel - she hurt her foot quite badly defending me.”
Salome stares down at the rock, her breathing beginning to hitch.
“You’re going to kick this stone,” I tell her, my voice dropping to a flat, conversational tone. “You’ll do it repeatedly until your foot is broken, exactly as my wife’s could have been.”
“What? No…”
“Oksana.”
The movement is a blur; Oksana lunges forward and seizes Davit by the throat, hoisting him off the ground until his small feet dangle uselessly. The boy begins to choke, his tiny hands clawing frantically at Oksana’s iron grip.
“No! Stop!” Salome thrashes against her restraints, her voice rising to a panicked shriek. “Don’t hurt him! Please!”
“Then kick the damn rock.”
“Yes! Okay! Just let him go!”
Oksana releases the boy, and he collapses onto the floor in a heap, gasping for air while Nadia steps in to cut the zip-ties. Salome slumps forward, rubbing her raw wrists and wincing in the sudden freedom.
“Stand up,” I command. She rises unsteadily, her legs trembling as she positions herself over the stone. “Kick the rock. And with every strike, you are going to scream: ‘I’m sorry your beautiful wife got hurt.’ I want it loud enough for even passersby to hear.”
“That’s insane…”
Oksana takes a menacing step toward the boy again, and Salome instantly recoils. “No! Wait! I’ll do it.” She pulls her leg back and swings, but the impact is weak, and the rock barely shifts.
“Harder,” I prod. “And say the words.”
She kicks again, a dull thud echoing through the room. “I’m sorry your beautiful wife got hurt!”
“Again.”
The cycle begins in earnest then - the rhythmic sound of flesh meeting stone followed by her cracking voice.
With every strike, the desperation grows until her toes begin to crunch against the unyielding gray surface, and crimson smears mark the concrete.
When something finally snaps in her foot with a sickening pop, she collapses to the floor, howling.
“Get up,” I say, unmoved.
“I can’t! It’s broken!”
“Get. Up.”
She struggles back to her feet, screaming as she puts weight on the ruined limb, and crawls back to the stone to deliver one final, agonizing blow. She’s sobbing so violently she can barely draw breath, her foot now bent at an unnatural angle with bone visible through the torn skin.
“Enough,” I finally say.
As she collapses into a broken heap, I crouch down beside her and speak softly into her ear. “I don’t hit women, Salome. But I have plenty of people who do.”
I stand and look at Oksana, gesturing toward the chair. “Tie her back up and give her the phone. She needs to call her husband.”
They drag her back into position, and as Nadia dials the number, Oksana holds the burner phone to Salome’s ear. It rings twice before Tornike’s worried voice breaks through the line.
“Salome?”
“Tornike…” she gasps, her voice barely a whisper. “They have us. They have Davit. You need to come.”
“Where are you? Who has you?”
“I don’t know... Russians. They want information about Dato. They said if you come to the old textile warehouse tomorrow at noon, they’ll negotiate…”
“Don’t tell them anything! Do you hear me? Nothing…”
“Please, Tornike! Just come! They broke my foot... they’re going to hurt Davit if you don't…”
I nod to Oksana, who ends the call with a click. “Good,” I say, turning toward the exit. “Now we wait.”
I walk out, the sound of her sobbing following me into the hallway while Davit remains in his corner, a silent, frozen witness to it all.
I pick Zoya up from campus at three, and when I pull up to the spot, she’s already running toward the car with her breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
Something is clearly wrong. She yanks the door open and throws herself into the passenger seat, her eyes darting around as she says a single word: “Drive.”
I pull into the flow of traffic, keeping my eyes on the road but my focus entirely on her. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
She’s not fine; her hands are shaking so violently she has to clench them into fists to hide the tremor.
“Zoya…”
“I’m good, really.” She buckles her seatbelt and forces a bright, brittle smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “How was your day?”
“I had a very boring meeting. How was your first day?”
“It was good. I made a few friends, I think.”
“That’s good.”
We drive the rest of the way in a heavy silence, Zoya staring fixedly out the window while I keep glancing over, trying to read the tension in her shoulders.
When we finally get home, she goes straight upstairs without a word, and I follow her.
She’s only halfway up when she stumbles.
Her hand shoots out, catching the railing with a sharp metallic clang that echoes through the quiet house.
“Zoya?”
“I’m fine,” she says, though her voice sounds thin and airy. “Just dizzy.”
I’m beside her in two steps, my hand firm on her elbow to steady her. “Sit down.”
“I’m okay, Alexei…”
“Sit.” It isn’t a request.
She sinks onto the carpeted step and buries her head in her hands. I crouch in front of her, studying her face in the dim light. She's far too pale, her skin looking almost translucent.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Everything just started spinning the moment I hit the stairs. It’s probably nothing.” She looks up at me, her gaze flickering with a touch of uncertainty. “I also bumped into someone at school today and fell down. Maybe I hit my head or something.”
“You fell? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you always make a big deal about everything. I’m fine.”
She’s not fine. I can see the exhaustion deep in her eyes.
I help her to her feet and guide her up the rest of the stairs, moving slowly until we reach the bedroom.
I don't give her a choice about the next step; I’m already heading into the bathroom to run the water hot, swirling in the rose oil and the chocolate soap she loves.
When I come back out, she’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
“Bath’s ready.”
She stands and walks past me like a ghost. I follow, watching as she sheds her clothes until she sees her reflection in the mirror and pauses. Her hand drifts down, pressing against the flat of her stomach.
“Do you think I’m getting fat?” she asks quietly.
I walk up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder so we’re both facing the glass. “I love every inch of you, Vedma. More of you to hold just means more of you to love.”
She makes a face at our reflection. “That’s just a nice way of saying yes.”
“That’s a way of saying I don’t care how you look. You already know you’re my type.”
She turns in my arms, looking up at me with those soft, searching eyes. “What exactly is your type?”
“You.”
“That’s cheating.”
“It’s the truth. You are the standard, my Aphrodite.”
Her expression softens, and she buries her face in my chest, her breath warm against my shirt. “You’re annoyingly sweet sometimes,” she mumbles.
“Only for you.” I kiss the top of her head. “Now get in before the water gets cold.”
She sinks into the tub with a long, trembling sigh. I sit on the edge, watching the tension slowly leave her shoulders as she soaks with her eyes closed. After a few minutes, she looks up at me. “Come join me.”
I don’t need to be asked twice. I strip down and climb in behind her, pulling her back against my chest so she’s nestled between my legs. I work the knots out of her shoulders, my hands eventually moving lower to cup her breasts, and she leans into my touch with a soft hum of approval.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says softly. “I’m just so tired and lethargic.”
“The first day wore you out,” I suggest, though a part of me wonders if it's more than that.
“Maybe.” She closes her eyes again. “Will you give me a massage?”
“Of course.”
We stay in the water until the heat begins to fade. I help her out, wrap her in a plush towel, and dry her off before we finally retreat to the bed. She collapses face-first into the pillows, her voice muffled. “I don’t think I can move.”
“Then don’t.” I climb in beside her and pull her shoulder. “Roll over.”
She rolls onto her back and lets me move down to her feet. I press my thumbs into her arches, and she lets out a long, low groan. “Don’t stop.”
I work through her feet, her calves, and her thighs until the rigidity in her muscles finally melts away. When I tell her to roll onto her stomach, she obeys without hesitation. I’m working my way down her spine when her phone starts buzzing on the nightstand.
“Ignore it,” I say.
It buzzes again, then starts ringing. She reaches for it with a sigh. “It’s Yelena.”
“Call her back tomorrow.”
The phone keeps ringing, persistently and loudly.
“Put it on speaker,” I say, my curiosity finally winning out.
She gives me a dry look but hits the button. “You’re on speaker. Alexei’s listening.”
“Hi Alexei!” Yelena’s voice bursts through, frantic and high-pitched. “You won’t believe what happened!”
“Yelena. What happened?”
“It’s Anya. She got caught again by Taras.”
Zoya sits up instantly, her exhaustion forgotten for a second. “What do you mean, caught?”
“You know how he told her to stop stripping? Said he’d take care of her financially?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, she refused. Said she doesn’t want to be dependent on a man - you know how she is. So he put a tracker on her! She found it in her purse and was furious, so she went to the club anyway just to prove a point.”
“Oh no,” Zoya breathes.
“Oh yes! And he showed up at the club while she was talking to a customer. Taras just lost it - he shot up the place!”
“What?!”
“There were bullets flying and people screaming. He shot the ceiling mostly and shattered half the bottles behind the bar, but still! He shot up a club!”
They go back and forth for a few more minutes, Yelena detailing how Taras dragged Anya out while she screamed at him in the parking lot. When they finally hang up, Zoya turns to me, her eyes wide. “Your cousin shot up a club.”
“So?”
“And you’re not surprised.”
“Nah.” I pull her back down against me. “He told her to stop. He has the means to take care of her, and if he wants to provide, she should let him.”
“That’s not how to get the girl. He’s been way too forceful, and Anya wouldn’t like that, Alexei. She wants to be free.”
“Then she should not have led him on. My cousin has never had a girl actively talk to him. You could say he’s like a turtle.
She sparked interest in him, and now it seems too much for her.
Taras isn’t the type to let go once he’s attached.
He’s obsessive. Once he decides something is his, he doesn’t share.
Anya can fight it all she wants, but the only question is how long it takes her to accept that she’s his. ”
Zoya opens her mouth to argue, but my own phone cuts her off.
Bohdan.
“What?”
“Tornike agreed to meet tomorrow at noon at the old textile warehouse. He’s bringing two men.”
“We’ll be ready. I want him alive. The others can be dealt with.”
I hang up and find Zoya watching me. “You have to go.”
“Not yet.” I kiss her, lingering for a moment. “Soon. But not yet.”
We lie there for another hour in the quiet of the room. I hold her until her breathing evens out and she falls into a deep, heavy sleep against my chest. Just as I’m starting to drift off myself, the phone vibrates again.
Bohdan.
“Change of plans. He wants to meet tonight. Says he has information and he’s ready to negotiate now.”
I look down at Zoya. She looks so peaceful, so fragile in her sleep. I don’t want to leave her, especially not when she’s feeling like this. But in our world, business doesn't wait for a convenient time.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I slide out of bed, ensuring she doesn't wake. I move to the closet and pull out my tactical vest, checking my holsters and knives. By the time I’m finished, I’m no longer the loving husband but a vengeful spirit.
I lean down one last time, pressing a ghost of a kiss to Zoya’s forehead. “I’ll be back before morning,” I whisper.
She doesn’t stir from her sleep. I turn and walk out into the night.