Chapter 2 – Timofey
I storm up the steps to Mike’s front door, every muscle taut. Summons without explanation irritate me.
I, Timofey Rusnak, do not enjoy being interrupted.
I’ve earned my reputation: efficient, ruthless, disciplined. A man who wastes time is a man who dies young—or worse, fails the family.
So I don’t waste time. My family knows this. Mike knows this.
Still. I don’t ignore Mike. Not this time.
The urgency in his message was clear:
“Come see me immediately. Very urgent.”
Mike doesn’t do “urgent.” Ever.
He takes his time. Do things slowly. Except when it comes to his wife, Ellie.
But I know this isn’t about Ellie. If it were, he’d handle it himself.
So what else could be causing the urgency?
That alone sparks my interest. I tried to ask what it was about, but he won’t say a word.
Then messages from Dimitri, Konstantin, and Sebastian land at different times—each more insistent than the last. All asking if I’ve gone to see Mike.
My cousins—my blood—I love them to death, but even they know better than to summon me blindly.
So I take my sweet time.
Three hours of calculated pacing, because I want to savor the tension. Let them stew. Let them wonder if I’ll come at all.
When the door opens before I reach it, Maksim steps out. Mike’s new right-hand man. Tall, sharp, eager—but not enough to impress me, especially after what Mike’s previous right-hand man did. I pass him without a word.
The hall smells faintly of expensive whiskey and leather. I jog up the sprawling stairs. Mike’s estate is huge, and his house is bigger. Every step irritates me. I was at the gym less than an hour ago, pushing my limits, and now climbing these endless staircases feels like punishment.
I reach the final step and push open Mike’s office door.
I expect a routine security briefing. Maybe instructions about an upcoming shipment.
I don’t expect a stranger.
She stands in the center of the room. Young. Exhausted. Out of place in clothes that don’t suit the cold New York winter outside. Her hair is disheveled. Her posture screams fatigue—but not defeat. She’s been pushed beyond limits most people can’t imagine.
I can see it.
Still…her gaze hits mine, sharp, unflinching.
Most men can’t do that. I’m not feared in the underworld as “The Enforcer” for nothing. But she holds it. A predator in the making—or a survivor. I notice every detail: the tension in her shoulders, the calculated way her eyes scan the room, the way her fingers twitch almost imperceptibly.
And then I see it.
The look I know too well. The one I’ve seen in men and women who have survived violence and lived to fight again.
She’s dangerous.
Not in some random, naive way. She’s precise. She’s aware. And she has the instinct to survive.
My pulse doesn’t spike. I keep my composure. But something inside me sharpens. This is no ordinary person. And if she’s standing here…then this is going to get complicated very fast.
I dismiss her silently and turn to Mike. He’s pouring whiskey into a glass, the amber liquid catching the light. He hands one to me. I don’t take it.
“What is this?” I snap.
Mike doesn’t flinch. He takes a slow sip from his own glass and sets it down.
“Her name is Valeria Petrova,” he says. “Daughter of Fydor Petrov. Russian Bratva. He…was murdered days ago. Cousin orchestrated a coup. She fled to America seeking protection. Under our name. Past alliances between our families.”
I raise a hand before he can continue. “Why here? Why us? Explain, Mike. Now.” My words cut through the air like a blade. Suspicious. Everything about this situation stinks.
From the corner of my eye, I feel it. Her gaze. It’s burning into the side of my face, sharp and insistent. I don’t look. I don’t need to. Not worth it. Not yet.
Mike shrugs, easy under my scrutiny. “She met Ellie at a gala last year. They…connected. So she hoped, since I’m her husband, that…I’d be easier to talk to.”
I laugh. Bitter. Hard. Cold.
“Hoped you’d be easier to talk to? So fucking convenient. Mike…turn her away. Now.” My words are deliberate, heavy with warning.
I step closer to the desk, letting my height and presence fill the room. The whiskey-scented air does nothing to calm the tension.
“Do you understand? This raises too many questions. A surviving daughter of a Russian Bratva family appearing out of nowhere, a request for protection, and—” I pause, letting my words sink, “—all of it drags us into foreign politics. Into their problems. Into potential blood.”
Mike’s eyes flick to hers, then back to me. I know he’s sensing the same tension I feel. “Timofey….”
I don’t hide my skepticism. I never do.
“This could be a trap,” I growl, my voice low, controlled, dangerous. “Desperate people do desperate things. And criminals manipulate powerful organizations to fight their battles for them. You expect me to just take her word for it? That the timing of her arrival is innocent?”
Mike sighs. “Sebastian and Dimitri have looked into it. Her story is real. She’s currently being hunted by her family in Russia.
She’s the last surviving heir, so they want her dead.
Petrov used to be a rival, but over the past few years, he’s been reaching out for a truce.
And we’ve been considering doing business together. ”
I shake my head. “So what? When did the Rusnaks become saviors for damsels in distress?”
“Excuse me?” Valeria speaks for the first time.
I hear movement, and she’s finally in my view.
She’s frowning. Instead of shrinking under my scrutiny, she meets my gaze with visible irritation.
Her posture stiffens as if my suspicion is insulting rather than intimidating.
The defiance in her expression suggests she is not accustomed to being doubted.
I study her carefully now. She’s a beauty. Tall, elegant, pale skin flushed red, long black hair falling in waves down her back, ice-blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass, cheekbones like daggers. And damn it—her fire makes me want to knock her down a peg, even as it makes my pulse tighten.
“I am not a damsel in distress,” she says. “I am very much capable of taking care of myself. But right now I need a landing, and I can’t take back my father’s empire alone. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
“I don’t give a fuck why you’re here. I don’t trust you, and your story doesn’t move me.”
Her eyes flare. Most people would have cowered, melted, or lowered their gaze by now. Not her. She holds it, steady, unwavering. That’s dangerous.
“You think because your family has power, because you’re a Rusnak enforcer, I’m supposed to bow my head and be grateful?” she snaps, voice low but cutting. “I’ve survived men who are worse than you. You’re not as intimidating as you think you are. Knock it off.”
I take a step closer, closing the space just enough to make her shift slightly—but she doesn’t. She’s calculating, aware. I can smell the fear she doesn’t have, the adrenaline she refuses to let show.
Mike clears his throat. “Timofey….”
His voice brings me back to reality and clears the red gaze in my eyes. I freeze just before I crowd her space.
“You’ve got fire,” I growl under my breath, low, controlled. “But fire gets people killed.”
“Timofey!” Mike snaps again, and I spin toward him, jaw tight.
“Why did you have me come here?” I growl, fists clenching. “What the fuck has any of this got to do with me? I don’t give a damn about this. I’m leaving.”
I reach the door, hand on the handle, when Mike’s voice stops me.
“You’re here because you’ve been assigned as Valeria’s primary protector.”
I freeze mid-step. My head snaps back, catching her gaze at the same time. Shock mirrors my own across her pale, exhausted face. Relief flickers for a fraction of a second—she wasn’t expecting this either.
“That’s not happening,” I growl, turning back to Mike.
“You’re the only one who can do it,” he says calmly, firmly.
“That’s not happening,” I repeat, the words heavy with restrained anger. I want to scream, curse, smash something—lose control—but I don’t. Composure is power, and I won’t give them the satisfaction.
“I don’t need a protector,” Valeria says sharply, stepping forward, posture defiant. “That’s…a bit much.”
“It’s not up for negotiation,” Mike says, voice flat. “Part of needing our help means doing what we tell you to do.”
Her eyes flash, but she doesn’t argue further. She doesn’t need to. Pride radiates from her like heat off metal, the kind that typically develops in people who grew up with power. Her body language suggests she doesn’t particularly appreciate being treated like a liability that needs guarding.
She simply stands, and I know she’s assessing me as much as I’m assessing her.
I stalk back to the door.
“Bullshit. I’m out of here.”
“Timofey!” Frustration twinges Mike’s voice.
I stop again. My hand hovers on the door handle. Valeria’s glare has sharpened into something like steel. Her chest rises and falls, chest high, chin lifted—defiance practically radiates off her.
“I don’t care about your arrangements,” I snap, voice low. “I’m not a babysitter. I’m not anyone’s protector. Least of all hers.”
Mike rises to his feet. “Step out with me for a moment, please.”
Eager to get away from the tension in the room, I follow him down the hall. My boots echo against the polished floor.
He stops at the edge of the stairs.
“What are you playing at?” I bark. “You can’t order me to do your bidding. I don’t like whatever this is.”
Mike exhales sharply. “It’s not about liking it. You’re assigned to her because we need to know she’s not hiding anything. Sebastian and Dimitri have looked into her story—they’ve confirmed parts of it—but there are questions we cannot ignore. She may have secrets, Timofey.”
I pause. Okay. So this is like an assignment. I can get behind that. Still…Valeria rubs me the wrong way.
Mike touches my shoulder. “It won’t be forever. Just until we’re sure she’s not a threat. If we let her go now, who knows who she’ll collaborate with? We need to be one step ahead.”
I take a deep breath and force myself to think objectively. I don’t have to like it. But he’s right. Holding her close, watching her every move—that’s the only way to protect our interests.
“Why does it have to be me?”
“You’re the only one available,” he says, smiling faintly. “Besides, you’re observant. Tactical. You notice details others miss. You’re the best for this.”
I run a hand down my face as he drops the next bomb.
“You’re going to have to keep her in your residence. Under your supervision.”
I exhale sharply. “Fuck.”
It’s not like I didn’t already expect it. Where else would she stay if I’m to protect and watch her?
We linger in silence for a moment before I nod. There’s no other way around it. We head back to the office.
Mike turns to Valeria, his tone firm. “You’ll be going home with Timofey. You’re under his protection from now on.”
Her lips purse, but she doesn’t speak. Her eyes meet mine, and there’s that same spark of defiance, unbroken. I feel the tension coil tighter, like a wire stretched too far.
I think I might enjoy watching her squirm.
I stalk beside her as we exit the office, the air between us thick and taut. She walks like she’s on guard, boots clicking sharply against the polished floor. Not afraid. Not submissive. Just…calculating. Every movement deliberate, every glance measured.
As we move toward the car downstairs, a nagging sense creeps over me. Something about this situation feels off. Her story, her timing…too precise, too clean. I don’t know if Valeria is a victim of a ruthless conspiracy or the architect of one herself.
Either way, my job is the same: Stay close, watch everything, and anticipate the danger before it reaches us.