Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Sergei
The door slammed shut, and footsteps echoed down the hallway—quick, panicked. Like a startled rabbit fleeing into the elevator.
I stood by the desk, staring at the closed door. My mouth twitched upward.
I'll admit it—when I first called her in, I just wanted to mess with her.
Watch her squirm. Watch her blush. Watch her stand in front of my desk, fingers twisting the edge of that folder, completely out of her depth. That kind of control—it pleased me. A little thing trembling before me. I could make her nervous. I could put her at ease. All up to me.
But now something was shifting.
I turned to the window and lit a cigarette.
Smoke curled around my fingers. I closed my eyes, and the image surfaced again—
Her learning Russian.
She'd stared at my mouth. So focused. So intent. She had no idea what she was doing to me.
Those red lips parted slightly, her soft, wet tongue pressed against her teeth as she mimicked the shape of the syllable. "Ми—ша." She whispered it, her breath almost hitting my face.
In that moment, my pants were painfully tight.
I imagined what that mouth could do, not speaking Russian, but wrapped around me, that pink tongue sliding over my head, then slowly taking me in, deeper, until I hit the back of her throat. I wanted to watch tears bead at the corners of her eyes, watch her struggle to swallow—
My breathing grew heavy.
Fuck.
I opened my eyes and took a deep drag, trying to shove those images out of my head.
Didn't work.
I thought of how a strand of auburn hair had slipped from behind her ear when she bent down to talk to Misha, falling across her cheek. She'd tucked it back absently, exposing a small patch of pale neck.
That skin looked delicate. Like it had never seen the sun. It practically glowed.
I'd almost reached out to touch it.
Almost.
I imagined what would've happened if I had—my fingers brushing that warm skin, making her shiver, making her gasp. She'd turn and look at me with those panicked eyes.
Then I'd grip the back of her neck and pull her in. Kiss her. Deeper, slower, more thoroughly than before.
I'd make her open her mouth, let my tongue explore every inch. I'd bite her lower lip, hear those soft little moans. I'd press her against the wall, let her feel how hard I was, let her know what she did to me.
My hand moved downward without thinking.
Fuck.
Hard again.
Just from thinking about her.
I stubbed out the cigarette and forced myself to breathe.
This wasn't right.
I needed control. Control over my body. Not reacting like some horny animal every time I saw my employee, my head full of nothing but thoughts of fucking her senseless.
But my body didn't listen to reason.
I wanted her.
Not just her body—though that too—I wanted her smile, her softness, the way she relaxed around me.
A low whine came from the couch.
I opened my eyes and turned.
Misha lay sprawled on the sofa, head resting on the armrest, amber eyes fixed on the door. Her tail swept lazily twice.
She was looking for her.
"She's gone," I said, walking over and sitting beside her.
Misha turned her head toward me and let out a mournful whimper.
"You'll see her tomorrow." I rubbed her head.
She rested her chin on my knee, eyes half-closed, like she was savoring some pleasant dream.
"You like her, don't you?" I said quietly.
Misha's tail wagged.
I leaned back into the couch, threading my fingers through the thick golden fur at her neck.
Twelve years.
I'd had her since the day she was born. From a tiny thing that fit in my palm to this eighty-pound beast.
She'd kept me company through countless late nights, through the family's power struggles, through so much blood and betrayal.
She was friendly, but never dropped her guard with anyone.
I'd thought she'd never warm to anyone but me—until today, when she rested her chin on Ella's knee.
"What did you see?" I asked her. "Did you see something different in her?"
Misha yawned.
My phone buzzed.
Bogdan's message. "Boss, the files you requested are ready."
I glanced at the time—5:30 PM.
Family meeting at six.
I sighed and stood.
"Sorry," I told Misha. "Got to go deal with those old bastards."
Misha gave me a lazy look and put her head back on the couch.
I grabbed my suit jacket and headed for the door.
Passing the desk, I stopped and picked up my phone.
"Emily."
"Yes, sir?"
"Set up a room for Misha. On the architecture floor, near Miss Collins' workstation. She'll need a dog bed, water bowls, toys, and an air purifier. Have it ready by tomorrow morning."
Silence on the other end for two seconds.
"Understood, sir."
I hung up and glanced at Misha on the couch.
"Starting tomorrow, you'll see her every day."
Misha's ears perked up.
I couldn't help but smile. I gave her head one more pat and walked out.
As the door closed, I looked back at the couch—Misha had already settled back down, head resting right where Ella's had been that afternoon, nose buried in the cushion like she was trying to catch her scent.
I left that image behind and stepped into the elevator.
Six PM. I arrived at the family mansion right on time.
The old place sat in Manhattan's Upper East Side, built back in the twenties. Red brick, peaked roofs, ivy crawling up the walls. Looked like something out of a Gothic novel.
I hated it here.
Too many bad memories—my father's funeral, my mother leaving, and those endless family meetings.
I pushed open the conference room door.
The long table was already full—uncles, cousins, family elders. Everyone in dark suits, faces grim, like they were attending some religious ceremony.
Viktor sat in the first seat on the right.
Eleven years older than me. Hair already graying. But those eyes—still as cunning as ever.
When he saw me, he flashed a fake smile.
"Nephew," he said in Russian. "You're late."
"Meeting's at six." I checked my watch. "It's six."
I walked to the head of the table and sat. Bogdan stood behind me.
"Let's begin," I said.
The meeting went smoothly. Dock quotas, Eastern European shipping routes, last month's seized cargo—I'd been handling these things for twelve years. I could recite every number, every checkpoint, every person's hand with my eyes closed.
I laced my fingers on the table and watched Viktor without expression.
Usually, he was the most active one in these meetings—like a greedy old lion eyeing my territory, ready to pounce the second I showed weakness.
But today he was unusually quiet. His fingers tapped the table slowly, rhythmically.
Those fox eyes flicked over me now and then, like he was waiting for something.
When all the operational business was wrapped up, Pavel cleared his throat.
"Seryozha," he used my nickname in Russian—his way of signaling false intimacy before saying something unpleasant. "How old are you now?"
I set down my pen.
"Forty."
"Forty." He repeated it with a meaningful sigh. "When your father was forty, you were already ten."
I placed my hands flat on the table, fingers together, and looked at him. Said nothing.
"The Pakhan's position needs succession," he said. "The family needs an heir. This isn't just my opinion—it's everyone's here." He glanced at the other elders. They all nodded. "You can't stay single forever, Seryozha."
"I know," I said.
"Then you—"
"I said I'll handle it."
Pavel opened his mouth, but my tone stopped him. He knew when to back off.
That's when Viktor spoke.
"Perhaps," his voice carried a casual amusement, "Seryozha already has someone in mind? I heard he's been paying special attention to a certain junior employee at the company."
A few heads lifted instinctively around the table.
I raised an eyebrow and looked at Viktor.
He sat there, fingers tapping the table lightly, those fox eyes carrying a harmless smile—like he was making idle conversation. But behind that smile was something probing, measuring, waiting for my reaction.
"Viktor," my voice stayed calm, but the weight in it silenced the entire room. "Are you spying on my private life?"
"Just making conversation." He waved it off with a smile. "After all, if the Pakhan has found someone suitable, that's good for the family. But if it's just a fling..." He paused. "We wouldn't want anyone using it against you."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
I replayed his words in my head.
He knew about Ella. Not just her name—he was already evaluating how to use her.
Damn it. I should've been more careful.
I laced my fingers, elbows on the table.
"Thanks for the concern," I said, my tone flat as glass. "But my private life isn't your business."
Viktor's smile stiffened.
"But Pakhan—" another elder tried to speak.
"Enough."
My voice wasn't loud, but the room went dead silent.
I stood slowly, hands on the table, leaning forward, looking down at them from above.
"I appreciate your contributions to the family," I said, tone calm as a weather report. "But you seem to have forgotten something."
I paused, letting the silence ferment.
"I'm the Pakhan."
Those words hit like a hammer.
"I don't need you telling me when to get married. I don't need you telling me how to run this family. And I sure as hell don't need you questioning my decisions."
My gaze swept from Ivanov to Petrov to Nikolai, finally landing on Viktor.
"When my father was in this seat, how did you speak to him?" I asked, voice dropping lower. "Did you dare question him like this?"
No one answered.
Because the answer was no.
When my father held this position, these old men didn't dare breathe wrong. One look from him and the room fell silent.
And me—
I inherited more than his position. I inherited his methods.
"If you think I'm not fit for this seat," I said, straightening, hands sliding into my pockets, "say it. We'll do it the family way—challenge, duel, fight to the death."
My mouth curved slightly, but there was no warmth in it.
"I promise to make the challenger's death dignified."
The air in the room solidified.