Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sergei
The call came in while I was on a video conference with the Moscow Syndicate reps.
Five stern faces filled the screen, each one representing a supply chain worth millions.
We were discussing first-quarter shipping quotas—numbers precise to two decimal places, every percentage point tied to the family's interests.
I glanced at the screen. Porter.
He never called during my meetings. Unless—
"Gentlemen," I cut off the balding man mid-sentence, "I need to take an urgent call. We'll resume in ten minutes."
I killed the camera and answered.
"Boss. Miss Collins." He paused for less than half a second. "She saw."
My fingers stopped on the desk.
"Saw what?"
"You. In Brooklyn. Handling the traitor."
I leaned back in my chair. Closed my eyes. Drew a deep breath.
So it finally happened.
"Where is she now?"
"The apartment. Guest room. Been locked in there since she got back." Porter hesitated. "Boss, she's not okay."
I opened my eyes and stared at the documents spread across my desk.
Viktor's money trail. Dmitri's movement logs. The Moscow contract that needed my signature today.
All critical.
All demanding attention.
But—
"I'm coming home."
I hung up, stood, and grabbed my coat.
Bogdan was outside. He pushed through the door when he heard movement. "Boss?"
"Meeting's postponed." I was already walking, pulling on my coat. No room for negotiation in my tone. "Andrew handles company business. You watch the family. Viktor makes any moves, you tell me immediately."
Bogdan had worked for me for twelve years. He rarely saw me drop everything like this.
He looked at me once. Nodded. "Understood."
"Also." I stopped at the elevator. "Anyone asks for me, I'm handling an emergency. No interruptions before tonight."
"Yes."
The elevator doors closed.
I leaned against the cold metal wall, pulled out my cigarette case, and extracted one.
The lighter flame jumped twice before it caught.
I drew deep. Smoke curled through the enclosed space.
I knew this moment would come. From the second I brought her to my apartment.
I just didn't expect it to be like this—her watching me pull the trigger.
The elevator reached the underground garage.
I crushed the cigarette and pushed through the door.
The car was ready, engine idling. I slid into the driver's seat. Didn't wait for the driver.
Floored it.
The car shot out of the garage into Manhattan traffic.
I drove fast, fingers tight around the wheel.
I ran through what I'd say when I got there.
Explain? No. Explanations would only make it worse.
Apologize? She didn't need my apologies. She needed the truth.
So tell her the truth—who I am, what I do, what my world looks like.
Then let her choose.
Stay, or go.
The thought was a knife, slow and steady, pushing into somewhere deep.
Eighteen minutes later, the car stopped outside the apartment building.
I killed the engine. Sat in the driver's seat for a few seconds.
Deep breath.
Reset my expression.
Then pushed the door open.
As the elevator climbed, I straightened my tie and refastened my cuff buttons.
The mirrored wall reflected my face—calm, composed, no emotion showing.
Better.
This was who I needed to be.
The moment I pushed through the door, the silence hit me.
Every light in the apartment was on, bright and harsh, but cold. The kind of brightness that made everything look hollow. Suffocating.
Porter stood in the living room. He came over the second he saw me.
"Boss—"
I raised a hand. Don't speak.
Down the hall.
The guest room door was shut tight.
I stopped outside, listened.
Water running—she was in the bathroom.
I knocked with my knuckles. Three times. Not soft, not hard.
"Ella."
The water stopped.
Silence stretched for several seconds.
"I know you're in there." I kept my voice low, but every word landed solid. "Come out. We need to talk."
"I don't want to talk." Her voice came through the door, hoarse, barely audible.
"But we have to."
"I said I don't want to!" Her voice suddenly spiked, edged with something close to breaking. "Go away! I don't want to see you!"
The words hit like a slap. Clean. Sharp.
My fingers curled, knuckles pressing against the door.
Stay calm.
"Ella." I kept my voice steady. "What you saw—"
"What did I see?" She cut me off, voice trembling. "I saw you kill someone! I saw you—and you didn't even blink!"
"That man betrayed me."
"So he deserved to die?" Her voice went higher, sharper. "So you just get to kill him?!"
"Yes."
I cut her off. The word came out hard.
"In my world, betrayal costs you your life. That's the rule."
Silence behind the door.
"You hear me, Ella?" I pressed each word clearly. "I won't apologize for what I did. That's my job. How I protect the family. How I protect you."
"Protect me?" Her voice went cold, laced with a mockery I'd never heard from her. "You trap me here, monitor my every move—that's protection?"
My eyes swept toward the surveillance room. The door was cracked open.
Damn it. Maybe I forgot to lock it this morning. Maybe something else. Didn't matter now. Ella had seen it.
"Ella, calm down. I just needed to make sure the apartment was secure."
"Bullshit!" Her voice was almost a scream. "Those guns, those cameras—you've been watching me this whole time, haven't you? In the bathroom, in the bedroom, every moment I thought I was alone! You violated my privacy! What am I to you? Your prisoner? Your—"
"My woman."
I cut her off. My voice dropped low, but every word drove in like a nail.
"You're my woman, Ella. So I need to know you're safe."
Long silence behind the door.
"I'm not your property." Her voice shook. "I'm a person, Sergei. A living, breathing person."
"I know—"
"You don't!" She cut me off. "You have no idea! You think buying me dresses, giving me gifts, saying a few nice things means you can turn me into your... your something—"
"Ella—"
"You're no different from Dmitri!"
The words hit my chest like bullets.
My hand slid off the door handle.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me." Her voice was pure desperation now. "You're just like him. Both of you—both of you just want to control me. Only difference is he used debt, and you used fake kindness and fake love!"
I stepped back.
Something in my chest cracked.
Not anger.
Something deeper. Something that hurt.
"Fine." I heard myself speak, my voice cooling, returning to the tone I used in the office, in family meetings, anywhere I needed to be the Pakhan. "If that's what you think, then we don't have anything to talk about."
I turned and strode toward the entrance.
"When you've figured it out," I stopped at the door, didn't turn around, "come find me."
Then I pulled the door open and walked out.
The door shut behind me. The sound echoed down the hall.
I stood at the elevator, pressed the button.
The door behind me didn't open again.
The elevator arrived.
I stepped inside and leaned against the wall.
The mirrored surface showed my face—calm, controlled, no emotion visible.
Perfect mask.
But the second the elevator doors closed, I pressed the back of my head hard against the cold metal and shut my eyes.
The next three days, we lived under the same roof like strangers.
Every morning at seven, I left the apartment.
Her door stayed closed.
Every night at eleven, I came back.
Her door was still closed.
Porter sent me updates every day.
Day one: Miss Collins came out twice. Got some water and crackers. Barely ate.
Day two: Miss Collins came out once. I knocked to ask if she needed help. She said no.
Day three: Miss Collins hasn't come out. The food outside her door is untouched.
I saved these messages on my phone, read them every night when I got back to the apartment.
Then I'd open my laptop and pull up the surveillance feed.
I told myself it was just to confirm she was safe.
But I knew it wasn't only that.
On the monitor, she spent most of her time lying in bed.
Not sleeping. Just that state where she stared at the ceiling, eyes open, completely still.
Sometimes she'd sit up, reach for the water glass on the nightstand, take a sip, then set it down.
Sometimes she'd walk to the window, pull the curtain back a crack to look outside, then quickly close it again.
She was getting thinner.
In just three days, her cheeks had visibly hollowed. Her collarbones stood out more sharply. Her whole body looked like—
Like a rose withering in fast motion.
I sat in the dark study, watching that screen, fingers tapping lightly on the armrest.
I should go in there.
I should kick that door down, drag her out, and force her to eat.
But I didn't.
Because that would only make things worse.
She needed time.
I told myself she needed time.
But watching her fade day by day, that voice in my head grew weaker and weaker.
It was almost one in the morning when I got back from the docks.
Viktor's men had moved tonight, tried to hijack one of our shipments. The fight lasted less than ten minutes. Four dead on the spot, three captured, the rest ran.
My shirt was splattered with blood.
In the car, I changed into a spare clean shirt, stuffed the bloodstained one in a bag and handed it to Bogdan for disposal.
The snow was heavy.
Wipers swept across the windshield, pushing the snow to the sides, but fresh flakes piled up immediately.
Almost no cars on the road.
I didn't drive fast.
What was the point of rushing home—her door closed, my door closed, two people separated by a wall.
When the car stopped outside the apartment building, I sat in the driver's seat for a while.
Pulled out my cigarette case. Put it back.
Forget it.
I pushed the car door open and walked into the building.
The elevator rose.
I leaned against the elevator wall and closed my eyes.
She'd barely eaten anything in three days.
Porter's message from this afternoon. The food outside her door is untouched.
An adult. Three days. Nothing but a few bites of bread and some water.