18. Ilya
ILYA
The coffee in my mug is cold, but I drink it anyway, letting the bitter liquid drag down my throat as I stare at the map of the southern canal.
Across the steel table, Lev is sweating.
He’s been talking for ten minutes about the security shifts at the coal terminal, his voice cracking twice under my stare.
Usually, this is the part where I tell him he’s an idiot and threaten to send him to the docks to haul crates.
I need to do it. I need to feel the cold, hard weight of my own authority again, to remind everyone in this room that the Pakhan doesn't get soft because a pretty girl smiled in his garden.
But every time Lev points to a warehouse on the grid, my mind drags me right back to the yellow primroses.
I keep seeing the dirt on her black leggings.
I keep hearing the way her laugh carried over the brick walls, light and completely real, like she forgot for a second that she was living in a fortress surrounded by men with automatic rifles.
I hated how much I liked it. I hated the sudden, terrifying realization that I would spend every single dollar in my accounts to keep that look on her face.
"The cargo is secured, Pakhan," Lev says, his hands shaking slightly as he folds his map. "We have three patrols on the secondary gate."
I toss my heavy pen onto the glass table, the plastic casing clattering loudly in the quiet room.
"You have two patrols. The third is at the eastern barrier. If I find a single blind spot on that terminal by tomorrow morning, Lev, I’m putting you on the night watch at the scrap yard. Do you understand me?"
He nods quickly, his face pale as he gathers his folders and backs out of the office.
The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with Dmitri.
My right-hand man is leaning against the filing cabinet, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the empty chair across from me.
He has that look on his face, the quiet, knowing scowl that usually means he’s about to say something I don't want to hear.
"You’re being hard on them today," Dmitri says, not moving from the wall. "Even for you."
"They're getting lazy," I grunt, rubbing my temple. The bandage on my shoulder is itching, a dull sting under my shirt. "With Russo quiet at the border, they think they can take three-hour lunch breaks. I want them sharp."
"You want to prove you’re still the boss," Dmitri corrects, a faint, dry amusement in his voice. "Because you spent the entire morning watching your wife dig in the dirt."
I glare at him, my jaw clenching. "She’s a captive, Dmitri. Don't start."
"She’s a captive who has you buying tomato seeds," he says, stepping away from the cabinet and pulling a small, glossy catalog from his jacket pocket.
He tosses it onto the desk. "Yara told me you wanted to buy her something.
Since you don't know anything about jewelry that doesn't involve laundering money, I thought I’d help. The emerald necklace was nice, but it’s a bit formal for a girl who likes to wear your oversized sweaters. "
I pick up the catalog, my thumb flipping through the pages of diamonds, sapphires, and platinum bands. They look useless. Thin, fragile things that would break the first time she tried to throw a shoe at my head.
"These are stupid," I say, tossing the booklet back. "She has enough diamonds. Her father gave her boxes of them."
"Then what do you want to get her?" Dmitri scratches his jaw, his brow furrowing. "Perfume? Silk? A car she can't drive because she’s not allowed past the gates?"
"A gun," I say, my voice flat.
Dmitri freezes, his hand dropping to his side. He stares at me for three long seconds, waiting for the punchline, but my face doesn't change. "A gun. You want to buy your kidnapped Bratva bride... a weapon."
"She needs to know how to protect herself," I say, leaning back in my chair. "If someone gets past the perimeter, if I’m not there, I want her to be able to put a bullet in a man's chest without flinching. She has the stomach for it. She watched Grigori flayed and didn't even blink."
"Ilya, she’s a Denisov," Dmitri says, a low, skeptical rumble in his throat. "If you give her a loaded weapon, the first person she’s going to shoot is you."
"She won't," I say, though a sudden, dark amusement flares in my chest at the thought. "She’s too smart to ruin her only protector. What do you have in the armory?"
Dmitri sighs, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone.
He scrolls through the digital inventory, his face shadowed with a mixture of disbelief and genuine amusement.
"We have the standard Glocks. The Walther PPK is light, but the recoil is snappy for someone with small hands.
Or I can call the custom shop in Munich. "
"Call Munich," I direct, my index finger tapping the desk. "I want something customized. Small caliber. Nine-millimeter, but with a titanium frame to keep it light. The grip needs to be smaller. She has tiny hands. And tell them to engrave the slide."
"With what?" Dmitri looks up, his thumb pausing on the screen. "Your initials? 'Property of Kovalevskii'?"
"No," I growl, my eyes narrowing. "Just her name. Viallentinka. In cursive. And make the grip walnut wood."
"Walnut wood," Dmitri repeats, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm as he types. "Very romantic, Pakhan. I’m sure she’ll cherish it forever."
"Get out," I grunt.
He walks toward the door but stops before he opens it, looking back over his shoulder. "If she shoots you, I’m taking the Mercedes."
The box arrives the next afternoon. It’s a sleek, velvet-lined case made of dark cherry wood, the brass hinges polished to a high shine. I take it up to the master suite, my boots silent on the plush carpet.
Via is sitting on the window bench, a book open in her lap, her golden hair tied up in a loose, messy bun. She’s wearing another one of my grey shirts, the hem falling over her bare knees. She looks up when I enter, her eyes instantly tracking the heavy box in my hands.
"If that’s another formal gown, you can leave it by the door," she says, her voice light, though her shoulders tense slightly as I walk closer. "I’m not dressing up tonight unless we’re expecting a visit from the governor."
I stop in front of the bench, setting the cherry wood box on her knees. "It’s not a dress."
She looks at the box, her brow furrowing as she traces the brass latch with her finger. She slides the lock back, the brass clicking softly, and lifts the lid.
She freezes.
The custom Sig Sauer P365 rests on the dark red velvet. The titanium slide is polished to a dull, silver-grey sheen, her name, Viallentinka, engraved in elegant, clean script along the side. The custom walnut grip is rich and dark, carved with fine, cross-hatched lines to prevent slipping.
She stares at it for a long time, her mouth opening slightly, her eyes shifting from the gun to my face. "Ilya... is this..."
"It’s a nine-millimeter," I say, my voice flat. "Ten-round capacity. The safety is manual, right by the thumb. I had the grip shaved down to fit your hand."
She lets out a short, incredulous laugh, her fingers hovering over the steel but not touching it. "You bought me a gun. You…You didn't think flowers or chocolate were appropriate?"
"Flowers die," I say, my arms crossed over my chest. "And chocolate won't stop a Russo enforcer or Mikhail from dragging you out of your bed. Pick it up."
“Arrogant Mafia man,” she mutters under her breath.
She hesitates, then slowly slides her fingers under the walnut grip, lifting the weapon from the velvet. She holds it with surprisingly good form, her finger resting straight along the frame, not touching the trigger. She checks the weight, her wrist steady.
"It’s light," she murmurs, her thumb naturally sliding over the manual safety. "It fits."
"It’s yours," I say. "But you don't use it until I teach you how to shoot it. We’re going to the range."
She looks up at me, her hazel eyes bright with a mixture of bewilderment and a sudden, quiet spark of interest. "You're a very strange man, Ilya."
"Get your shoes," I grunt, turning toward the door.
The indoor shooting range is located in the cellar beneath the east wing, a long, concrete tunnel insulated with heavy acoustic foam and lined with steel targets. The air is cool, smelling of ozone, lead, and the sharp, chemical scent of gun oil.
Via stands at the firing line, wearing a pair of yellow-tinted safety glasses and heavy black earmuffs that make her head look impossibly small. She’s holding the Sig Sauer with both hands, her posture stiff as she stares down the fifty-foot lane at the paper silhouette target.
I stand behind her, my arms crossed, watching her stance. She’s leaning back, her weight on her heels, her shoulders hunched.
"You're going to fall over," I say, my voice carrying over the low hum of the ventilation fan.
She doesn't lower the gun. "I’m perfectly balanced, Ilya. My father’s instructors told me my stance was excellent."
"Your father’s instructors were trying to keep from getting shot by your father," I say, stepping into her space.
I close the distance between us, my chest pressing directly against her back.
The sudden, intense heat of her body instantly cuts through the cool air of the range, her vanilla scent filling my lungs.
I reach out, my large hands wrapping over hers, my callused fingers completely covering her smaller ones on the walnut grip.
She flinches slightly at the contact, her back arching, her hips pressing back against my groin. I can feel the sudden, rapid flutter of her pulse under her skin, her breath coming in short, shallow hitches.
"Leaning forward," I whisper, my mouth inches from her ear, my warm breath fanning across her neck. "Your weight needs to be on the balls of your feet. Drive your shoulders down. Don't hunch them."
I shift my weight, my thigh sliding between hers to force her legs slightly wider, establishing a solid, grounded base.
The physical contact is electric, the heavy friction of our clothes rubbing together as I align her hips with mine.
She is completely trapped between my body and the firing line, her bare neck exposed to my mouth.
"Like this?" Her voice is a breathless thread, her hands shaking slightly under mine.
"Yes," I rasp, my grip on her hands tightening, guiding her arms straight out. "Keep your wrists locked. The titanium frame is light, but the recoil will push the muzzle up if you don't control the snap. Don't fight the gun. Let your body absorb the shock."
"I'm ready," she whispers.
I reach up, sliding her earmuffs down over her ears, before pulling my own down. I stay wrapped around her, my chest a solid wall against her back, my hands still covering hers on the weapon.
"Slide the safety off," I direct, my thumb guiding her smaller one to click the brass lever down.
She takes a deep breath, her chest expanding against mine, her finger slowly sliding onto the cold steel of the trigger.
"Focus on the front sight," I whisper, my chin resting on her shoulder, our heads aligned as we both look down the dark tunnel at the target. "Smooth press. Don't jerk it."
Bang.
The sound is a sharp, concussive slap that vibrates through my bones, the bright flash of the muzzle lighting up the concrete walls for a fraction of a second.
The recoil kicks back, a sudden, violent jolt that drives her shoulders straight into my chest. But I don't let her stumble.
I hold her steady, my body absorbing the shock of the snap, my hands keeping her wrists locked.
The paper target down the lane has a neat, clean hole right in the center of the chest.
"You hit the lung," I murmur, sliding her earmuffs up slightly so she can hear me.
She lets out a long, shaky breath, her body relaxing against mine, her head tossing back to look up at me. Her hazel eyes are wide, glassy, and completely dark with a sudden, hot rush of adrenaline. Her lips are parted, her skin flushed and warm.
"I wanted the heart," she says, a small, sassy spark returning to her voice despite the trembling in her hands.
"You'll get the heart next time," I rasp, my hand sliding from her wrist down to her waist, my fingers digging into the soft wool of her sweater.
I turn her around in my arms, her back hitting the edge of the steel prep table behind the firing line. The custom gun is still in her hand, but I reach down, click the safety back on, and set it on the table behind her.
I press against her, my thighs pinning hers against the metal. My hand goes to the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her golden hair as I pull her head back, forcing her to look at me.
"You're too fast with that mouth, Via," I growl, my face inches from hers.
"You're too slow with everything else, Ilya," she whispers, her eyes locking onto my mouth with a raw, starving hunger.
I seal my lips over hers.
I devour her, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her hard against my groin until she’s whimpering against my mouth. She wraps her arms around my neck, her legs automatically rising to lock around my waist, her body wet, aching, and completely ready for me.
I slide my hand under the hem of her sweater, my rough palms flat against the warm, bare skin of her waist. I lift her, hoisting her onto the edge of the steel table.
I reach for the lace of her panties, ripping them away with a single, rough tug, my eyes never leaving her flushed face.
"Ilya... please..." Her voice is a ragged, wet wheeze, her fingers digging into my hair as I position myself at her entrance.
"You're so electric, Via," I growl, my chest heaving against hers as I drive myself deep inside her in a single, heavy thrust.
She screams, the sound bouncing off the acoustic foam of the range as she clings to me, her body wrapping tightly around my length as I begin to move. The pace is hard, deep, and relentless, the steel table vibrating under our weight as we lose ourselves in the dark, heavy rhythm.