Chapter 37 #5
“One second, Vedma.” He kisses my cheek and steps out.
I stay where I am, feeling his cum slide out of me and drip onto the desk.
The chaos around me doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I finally got what I needed.
When he comes back with a washcloth, he’s tender as he cleans his cum from my thighs and pussy, his movements slow and careful, the opposite of how he just fucked me.
“Satisfied, Vedma?” His arm wraps around my waist as he assists me down, supporting me when I sway.
“Best I’ve felt in weeks.” I collapse into him.
He pulls me into his chest. “I’m sorry, Vedma. I should have given you what you needed sooner.”
“Just don’t do it again,” I murmur against his shoulder, breathing in his scent.
“I won’t,” he promises, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll fuck you whenever you want, however you want.”
For a few breaths, we just hold each other, sticky and satisfied, the chaos of the room forgotten.
Nothing else matters right now. Something changes.
He goes still, looking past me at something.
I turn to see what he’s looking at, following his gaze to the corkboard.
It’s one of the photos still pinned to the board.
From the south district. An alley shot with several men in the background.
One figure stands out in focus. And an older man - maybe in his 50s - dressed in an expensive suit, looking totally out of place in that bad neighborhood. Alexei’s expression changes completely. The tenderness drains away, replaced by something cold and furious.
“When did you shoot this?” He sounds like a stranger.
I look at the photo more carefully, confused by his reaction. “In the south district, Larissa took a few pictures.”
He says nothing, walking towards the board and unclipping that particular picture.
“Who is he?” I ask again, pulling my pants up.
“Nobody important.” He says flatly.
“I’m not stupid, Alexei.” Anger replaces my post-sex haze. “Who is he?”
“Can I have this photo?” He folds it and starts to put it in his pocket.
“Not until you explain.” I grab his arm. “Who is that man?”
The look he gives me is blank. “That’s not something I can share.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Frustration builds in my chest.
“Both.” He moves around me, heading for the door.
“Alexei!” I follow him to the doorway.
He hesitates at the threshold. “I have business to handle. Go to bed without me.”
“We’re not done talking…” I protest.
“Drop it.” His tone has gone cold. Then he’s gone, disappearing down the hallway.
I hear his office door close. Then lock.
I remain frozen by the doorframe, looking at where he disappeared.
What the hell just happened? One moment, he was holding me, promising to never deny me again.
The next, he’s cold and distant over a photograph.
I turn back to the board, looking at the space where the photo used to be.
Who was that man? And why did Alexei react like that? Somehow, I make it back to my desk and sit down, opening my laptop.
Then I check back to Yulia's file that she sent to me, searching for the photo. Immediately I find it, I zoom into it. There’s nothing really special about the man apart from the fact that he’s older, and he just wears an expensive suit.
But despite that, I save the image to my desktop. This photo is too important to risk.
Alexei underestimates me if he thinks I’ll just let this go.
Perhaps if I investigate, if I contribute something, he’ll want to involve me. Things might improve. He might open up again. I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the name I need.
Sergei. My old boss. I don’t think there’s anybody in the shady business he doesn’t know.
But I stall for a moment. Alexei specifically didn’t want to discuss this. Calling Sergei crosses a line. Still, I need to do something. I need to feel useful.
I hit call before I can change my mind.
It rings three times. Then a rough, familiar voice crackles through. “This is a surprise - the Pakhan’s wife calling me.” He’s amused.
I clear my throat. “I need information.”
"You married Alexei Romanov; quite the upgrade from our shabby office.” He chuckles.
“Sure.” I skip the niceties. “I have a question about someone in a photograph.”
“About?” His tone shifts, becoming more professional.
“There’s someone in one of my photographs. I need an ID.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. “Alright. Send the photo. I’ll check my sources.”
“I appreciate this, Sergei.” My shoulders relax slightly.
“But Zoya?” His voice turns serious.
“What?” I know I won’t like what’s coming.
“Be careful. If you’re asking about someone your husband doesn’t want you to know about… that’s dangerous. And I’m certain you didn’t talk to him about this.”
“I understand the risk.” I sound more certain than I feel.
“For some reason, I highly doubt that.” His skepticism is clear. “But it’s your funeral.”
I hang up without a word, pulling up the photo and thumbing it into a new message. I hesitate at the final step. This is it. Once I send this, there’s no going back. Alexei will find out eventually, and he’ll be furious.
But I need to know. I need to understand what made him shut down like that. I hit send and hold my breath, watching the message deliver until the read receipt finally appears.
I wait, my eyes locked on the phone as I oscillate between a desperate need for answers and a paralyzing dread of what they might be.