CHAPTER 6
LIAM P.O.V.
The reek of stale cigars and burnt ambition choked the air in my command center.
It was a familiar stench, the aroma of my fucked-up empire, a smell that usually grounded me.
But not today. Today, it felt like another layer of grit on my skin, another fucking burden.
My ribs ached with a dull, persistent throb, a souvenir from Dmitri’s desperate struggle.
It was a reminder of the price of power, and the cost of keeping Rose safe.
Vasily’s voice, a monotone drone, sliced through the quiet hum of the monitors. “Oleg Volkov’s last known location was a safe house in Red Hook. We hit it an hour ago. Clean. Empty. He’s gone ghost again.”
My jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in my cheek. “Gone ghost? Or you didn’t look hard enough, Vasily?” My voice was a low growl, a predator’s snarl. “Find him. He’s the key to getting Konstantin. Tear the fucking city apart. I want him breathing, but I want him broken. Understood?”
Vasily nodded, his eyes as blank as ever. “Understood, Pakhan.”
Sergei, always the quieter one, stepped forward. “The council members are feeling the pinch. Old man Petrov is squawking about the disruption to his routes. And there are whispers that Volkov has been making inroads with the Albanian crew on the west side.”
“Let Petrov squawk. He’s a rat in a cage,” I spat, my gaze sweeping over the war map spread across the main table.
Red pins marked Vasily’s failed raid. Black pins showed Volkov’s suspected territories.
“As for the Albanians, show them what happens when they make deals with ghosts. Send a message. Something they’ll remember. Something that bleeds.”
They moved with grim efficiency, their loyalty absolute, their ruthlessness a reflection of my own. They didn’t question. They didn’t hesitate. They were extensions of my will, instruments of my power. And for that, I valued them.
But even as I gave orders, my mind kept fucking drifting. Back to the penthouse. To her. Rose.
The image of her face, tear-streaked and shattered, was burned behind my eyelids. The way her body had stiffened, the way she had pushed against me, her small fists impotent against my chest. You broke me! Her words echoed, a venomous whisper in my brain.
I slammed a hand on the table, making the glasses jump. “Get out.”
Vasily and Sergei exchanged a glance, then turned, their footsteps soft as they exited, leaving me alone in the cold, sterile heart of my empire.
My breath hitched. My chest felt tight, a band of steel squeezing my lungs.
I hated that sound in her voice. Hated the pain in her eyes.
I had saved her life, pulled the trigger on my own fucking brother, and she had looked at me like I was a monster.
The monster I was, yes, but her monster.
Her protector. The man who would burn the world down to keep her safe. And she recoiled.
The anger was a hot, familiar inferno in my gut, but it was mixed with something else.
A desperate, aching need. My cock stirred, thick and heavy, an insistent throb against my jeans.
It was a phantom ache, a ghost of her touch, her body, her scent.
I wanted to feel her clench around me, hear her screams, her pleas, silence the damn accusations in her eyes with her own desperate pleasure.
The sex had been brutal, yes, an assertion of ownership, a desperate attempt to bridge the fucking chasm between us.
But it hadn't worked. Not truly. She was still a thousand miles away, even when I was buried deep inside her.
She writes about it. The thought twisted something ugly in my gut.
I knew she had her journal. Knew she was pouring out her thoughts, her horror, her damn mágoa onto those pristine pages.
Preserving the record of my sins, of her pain.
It was a fucking manipulation, her own twisted way of fighting back, of making sense of the madness.
And I allowed it. Because it was her. Because even in her defiance, she was mine.
I paced the room, my boots thudding softly on the polished concrete.
The city outside, a glittering jewel of danger and deceit, seemed to mock me.
Every building, every shadow, held a threat, a whisper of Volkov.
He was still out there, weaving his fucking web, and I was caught in it, just like Dmitri had been.
Just like my father before me. A long game, centuries in the making, and I was just another fucking pawn.
No. I wasn’t a pawn. I was the Pakhan. And I would tear Volkov’s world apart, piece by bloody piece, until there was nothing left but ash.
My phone vibrated, a terse message from one of my surveillance teams. Target acquired. White van, east side docks. Matches description of Volkov’s operative.
Finally. A goddamn lead. A thread to pull.
“Get me a team,” I barked into my comms, my voice rough, adrenaline already coursing through my veins. “Armored vehicle. Silent approach. I want that fucker alive. And I want him to sing. Every dirty secret Volkov whispered in his ear.”
I moved with purpose now, the suffocating internal monologue momentarily silenced by the promise of action. This was my world. This was where I belonged. Not in a gilded cage with a broken woman, but in the brutal, unforgiving streets, tearing apart my enemies.
As I pulled on my tactical vest, the bruised ribs protested, a sharp stab of pain. I gritted my teeth. Pain was a fucking companion, a constant reminder of the fight.
My men were waiting in the garage, a silent phalanx of lethal efficiency. Vasily handed me my rifle, his eyes meeting mine. There was no judgment there, only unwavering loyalty. That was something. Something I could count on.
“Let’s go hunting,” I snarled, climbing into the armored SUV. The engine rumbled to life, a low, predatory growl.
The drive was tense, the city lights blurring past the armored windows.
My thoughts, however, kept returning to the woman I’d left behind.
She was up there, in her gilded cage, probably still writing in her damn journal, trying to make sense of the monster she was tethered to.
Trying to understand the depth of my darkness.
I squeezed the rifle, the cold steel a welcome weight in my hands.
The thought of her, still raw with mágoa, still rejecting me even after I’d saved her, fueled a cold, hard rage inside me.
She might hate me, but she was mine. And I would remind her, again and again, until she finally broke beneath me, surrendered completely, and accepted her place.
Not just in my bed, but by my side. Even if it meant shattering her world a thousand times over to make her understand.
The van pulled up, silent as a ghost, at the entrance to the docks. The air here was thick with the tang of salt and decay, the clatter of distant machinery. A perfect hunting ground.
“Move,” I commanded, my voice a whisper, yet loaded with lethal intent.
We spilled out, shadows blending with the night, weapons raised.
This wasn’t just about Volkov’s operative.
This was about asserting control. About proving that no one fucked with Liam Morozov and lived to tell the tale.
And it was about Rose. About silencing her damn accusations, her tears, her mágoa, with the brutal, undeniable truth of my power.
She would understand. She would. Or I would break her trying.
My men moved into the warehouse, the metallic clang of a dropped tool echoing in the silence before we reached the door. It was locked. A flimsy barrier.
“Breach,” I ordered, a cold, hard smile on my lips.
The door splintered open with a sickening crash, wood groaning in protest. We stormed inside, weapons sweeping the space. Empty crates. Broken machinery. And in the far corner, huddled behind a stack of rusted barrels, a man, pale with terror, his hands already raised. Oleg Volkov.
My eyes narrowed. He was a sniveling little fuck, not worth the bullet. But he was useful. A link to the fucking puppeteer.
I walked toward him, each step deliberate, slow, letting the fear build. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixed on me like a deer caught in headlights. He knew. Knew what was coming.
“Konstantin sent you, didn’t he, you pathetic piece of shit?
” I snarled, my voice low, raw with the accumulated fury of days without sleep, days without peace, days without Rose’s acceptance.
“He thought he could use my brother against me. He thought he could break my empire. He thought he could take what was mine.”
I grabbed him by the throat, hauling him up against a metal beam, his feet dangling uselessly above the concrete.
His eyes bulged, his face turning an ugly shade of red.
He choked, clawing at my hand, but I held him tight, enjoying the struggle.
This was the release I needed. The raw, unfiltered assertion of power.
“Where is he?” I demanded, my face inches from his, my voice a guttural whisper that promised agony. “Tell me where Konstantin Volkov is, or I swear to God, I will rip your fucking spine out and make you eat it.”
The man convulsed, his body spasming, terror warring with a desperate defiance. He choked out a garbled sound.
I increased the pressure, my thumb pressing hard against his windpipe.
His eyes rolled back. This was not just about getting information.
This was about making a fucking statement.
To him. To Volkov. To the entire goddamn city.
And to the woman who dared to question my choices. My existence. My right to claim her.
My rage was a physical thing, a beast unleashed.
It was for Dmitri, yes, for the lie. It was for Volkov, for his manipulation.
But deep down, it was for Rose. For the pain in her eyes, for the way she looked at me like I was a monster, for the chasm she’d carved between us.
I would make them all pay. Every fucking one of them.
And then, maybe, I could finally claim my rose, whole and entirely mine, without her tears, without her mágoa.
I would break every fucking barrier, even if it meant breaking her first.
His body went limp in my grip, his eyes glazed over. But he was still breathing. Just.
“Bring him back,” I commanded, releasing his throat, letting him slump to the floor, gasping for air. “He’ll talk. They always do.”
I turned, my men already securing the area, their faces grim, unreadable. They knew the message I’d sent tonight. Knew the fury that simmered beneath my skin.
I walked back to the SUV, the night air crisp and cold, but the heat inside me still burned, a desperate, possessive fire. This was just the beginning. The war was far from over. And neither was the fight for my rose.