15. The Confrontation
The Confrontation
Aleksander
Iwake with the weight of a dead woman on my chest.
It's not Elena. Not exactly. It's the ghost of her—the memory of her, the shape of her, the way she used to breathe beside me in the dark.
She's been gone for twenty years, but some nights she comes back.
Some nights I can feel her hair against my cheek, her hand on my chest, her voice in my ear telling me everything is going to be all right.
Those are the worst nights. The nights when I wake up and reach for her and find nothing but cold sheets and the hollow echo of my own heartbeat.
Tonight is one of those nights.
I lie still for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. The old wood creaks. The heating system whispers. Somewhere in the distance, a door closes—soft, deliberate, the kind of sound that means someone is moving through the shadows, trying not to be heard.
I know who it is. I've known for hours. I've been lying here, wide awake, waiting for the inevitable.
Monika went to the warehouse tonight.
I know because Viktor called me. I know because I have eyes everywhere, ears in every wall, a network of informants that stretches across the city like a spider's web.
Nothing happens in my territory without my knowledge.
Nothing moves without my permission. I knew about the children long before she told me, but I didn't care enough to do anything.
Honestly, Nathan being entertained and not my problem was nice.
But I didn't stop her from going.
I could have. I could have locked her in her room, stationed guards at every exit, made it impossible for her to leave. I could have protected her the way I've protected everything else I've ever loved—by controlling it, containing it, suffocating it until it became something else entirely.
I didn't.
Because I wanted to see what she would do.
The confrontation happens at dawn.
I find Nathan in his office, sitting behind his desk like a king on a throne. He's been up all night—I can see it in the shadows under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the way his hands tremble slightly as he reaches for his coffee. He's been up all night, and he's been waiting for me.
"Father," he says. "How unexpected."
"Don't." My voice is cold. "You knew I would show up. I might be old, but I've been a kingpin much longer than you, son."
He sets down his coffee. He leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mask of calm. "I assume Monika told you."
"Monika didn't tell me anything. Monika is in her room, shaking, because your men put their hands on her. Your men, Nathan. The men you employ. The men who answer to you."
Something flickers across his face—something that might be guilt or might be anger or might be something else entirely. "She shouldn't have been there."
"She shouldn't have had to be there." I step closer. "She went to the warehouse because you're trafficking children. She went there to stop you. And instead of protecting her—instead of doing the right thing—you let your men manhandle her. You let them throw her into a room like she was nothing."
"I didn't let them do anything. I gave orders to keep her safe."
"Safe?" I laugh. It's a bitter sound, hollow and sharp. "You call that safe? She's covered in bruises, Nathan. Bruises from your men. Bruises from you."
He stands. His chair scrapes against the floor, a harsh sound that echoes through the room. "What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? That I made a mistake?"
"I simply want you to stop."
"I can't."
"You can. You will."
"I won't." He walks around the desk, his steps slow and deliberate. "This is my empire now, Father. You built the foundation, but I'm the one who's going to take it to the next level. The trafficking routes are profitable. The children are a commodity. The market wants what the market wants."
"The market doesn't want children."
"The market wants workers. Children are more compliant."
"Do not bring Monika into your affairs anymore." My voice is sharp. "If you won't stop trafficking the children, the least you could do is prevent your men from bruising her."
"She's already involved. She's been involved since the night you brought her into this house. She's been involved since she pulled that bullet from your side."
"She's not part of this."
"She's the only part of this that matters." He stops in front of me, his eyes dark, his jaw tight. "You know that. You've always known that."
I slap him.
The sound echoes through the room—sharp, loud, the kind of sound that leaves a mark. His head snaps to the side. Blood trickles from a cut on his lip. He touches it with his fingers, looks at the red on his skin, and then looks at me.
He's smiling.
"You've still got some fight left in you," he says. "I was beginning to think you'd lost it."
"You've lost your mind." My voice is shaking. "You're spiraling. This is going to end badly."
"Let it."
I stare at him. The room is silent. The blood is still trickling from his lip. The sun is rising outside the window, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink, and I can see the city stretching out below us—the city I built, the city I've controlled for thirty years.
"My sons," I say. "Both of you. You're destroying everything I've ever built."
"We're building something new."
"You're building a graveyard."
He laughs. It's a terrible sound. "Maybe. But at least it'll be mine."
I leave him in his office.
I walk through the house, my footsteps echoing on the marble, my mind racing with things I can't control. The servants move out of my way—they always do—their eyes averted, their voices hushed. They know something is happening. They know the family is falling apart.
They don't know how bad it is.
I stop in front of Elena's portrait. Her dark eyes look down at me, sad and knowing. She always knew what I was. She loved me anyway.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry for all of it."
She doesn't answer. She never does.
I keep walking.
I find Monika in her room.
She's sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hair loose around her shoulders.
She's been crying—I can see the tear tracks on her cheeks, the redness around her eyes.
But she's not crying now. She's just sitting there, staring at the wall, and I can see something in her expression that I've never seen before.
Strength.
Not the kind of strength that comes from power or wealth or violence. The kind of strength that comes from surviving. The kind of strength that comes from leaning in when everyone else runs away.
She looks up when I enter. Her eyes meet mine.
"Aleksander."
"Monika."
I cross the room. I sit beside her. I don't touch her. I don't reach for her. I just sit there, in the silence, and let the weight of everything that's happened settle between us.
"I know what you did," I say. "I know about the warehouse. I know about the girl."
"You know everything."
"I know everything."
She looks at me. Her eyes are brown, steady, the color of earth after rain.
"Are you going to punish me?" she asks.
"No."
"Then what are you going to do?"
I don't answer. I don't know how.
I kiss her.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's not a tender kiss. It's the kiss of a man who has been holding himself back for too long, who is tired of pretending he's something he's not. His mouth crashes against hers with the force of a wave breaking against rocks—desperate, hungry, inevitable.
She makes a sound against my mouth—surprise, or maybe relief—and I feel it go through me like a current, sparking down my spine, pooling hot and heavy in my gut.
I pull her closer. She comes willingly, her body pressing against mine, soft curves yielding to hard planes.
Her hands tangle in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp, and I groan into her mouth.
The bed creaks beneath us, the fire crackles in the hearth, and the world outside this room ceases to exist.
I break the kiss only to breathe, my forehead pressed to hers, our breath mingling in the heated space between us.
"I need to feel something." My voice is rough, scraped raw. "I need to feel something other than this—this fear, this anger, this weight."
"I know."
She kisses me. Soft, tender, everything I don't deserve. Her lips brush against mine like a benediction, like forgiveness I haven't earned. And somehow that gentleness undoes me more than the fire.
I undress her slowly. I take my time, pressing my lips to every inch of skin I reveal.
Her collarbone, where her pulse flutters wild and fast. The hollow of her throat, where I can taste the salt of her skin.
The soft curve of her breasts, the peak of her nipples hardening under my tongue.
She shivers beneath my touch, and I feel her body respond to mine—arching into me, seeking more.
"You're beautiful," I say against her skin. "You're so beautiful, Monika."
"Aleksander..."
"I love you." The words come out before I can stop them, torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "I know I don't deserve you. I know I've hurt you. But I love you."
She doesn't say it back. I didn't expect her to. But she reaches for me, pulls me down to her, and I feel her body open to mine—her thighs parting, her hips tilting up, welcoming me.
I enter her slowly. Gently. The way I wish I could love everything—patiently, without taking, without demanding. I hold her like she's something precious, something I've been afraid to break. Her inner walls grip me, hot and wet and perfect, and I have to close my eyes against the sensation.
"Look at me," she whispers.
I do. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and in them I see everything—fear and desire and something that might be hope.
But then something shifts. Something changes. The gentleness fades, replaced by something darker, something hungrier. The beast I keep caged rattles its chains.
I fuck her harder. Rougher. I grip her hips, my fingers digging into her skin hard enough to bruise, and I hear her gasp—not in pain, but in surprise. Her nails rake down my back, leaving fire in their wake.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Don't stop." Her voice is breathless, broken. "Don't stop, Aleksander. Please."
I don't stop.
I lose myself in her. In the feel of her body beneath mine—the slick heat of her, the way she tightens around me with every thrust. In the sound of her voice saying my name like a prayer, like a plea.
In the desperate, impossible hope that this—this moment, this connection, this thing between us—might be enough.
The headboard slams against the wall. The fire has burned down to embers, casting us in amber and shadow. Sweat slicks our skin, making us slide against each other. I hook her leg over my shoulder, driving deeper, and she cries out, back bowing off the mattress.
"More," she gasps. "Please, more—"
I give her more. I give her everything. I fuck her like I'm trying to crawl inside her skin, like I'm trying to escape the darkness that's been eating me alive. And she takes it—takes me—with a ferocity that matches my own.
I feel her start to tighten around me, her rhythm faltering, her breath coming in sharp, desperate pants.
"Come for me," I growl against her throat. "Let go. I've got you."
She shatters. Her body convulses around mine, a broken cry tearing from her lips, and the sight of her—flushed and trembling and completely undone—is enough to push me over the edge.
I come with a broken groan. It rips through me like a physical thing, leaving me shaking, emptied, raw. She follows a moment later—or maybe we fall together, I can't tell anymore. And then we lie there, tangled in each other, the fire burning low, the world outside forgotten.
I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. Steady. Real. I press my lips to her hair and breathe her in.
"I don't know how to save him," I say. "I don't know how to save any of you."
She holds me. She doesn't say anything.
"There's nothing left to fight for."
She holds me tighter. Her arms wrap around me like she can hold me together through sheer force of will. And I realize, with a clarity that cuts through everything, that I'm wrong.
There's her.
There's always been her.
I lie in the dark.
Monika is asleep beside me, her head on my chest, her breathing slow and steady. The fire has burned down to embers. The room is cold. But I don't feel the cold. I don't feel anything except the weight of her body against mine.
I think about leaving.
Not the way I've thought about it before—with guilt and obligation and the desperate need to hold everything together. But really leaving. Walking away from the mansion. Walking away from the empire. Walking away from my sons.
I think about taking Monika somewhere far from here. A villa in the south of France. An island in the Caribbean. A cabin in the mountains where no one knows my name. A place where we could be something other than what we are.
I think about waking up next to her every morning. I think about watching her read her veterinary textbooks in the sunlight. I think about teaching her to swim. Teaching her to laugh. Teaching her to live.
I think about what it would feel like to be free.
I close my eyes. I see her face. Her steady eyes. Her steady hands. The small furrow between her brows.
I love her. I love her more than I've ever loved anything.
And I'm going to lose her.
I'm going to lose her because I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to stop being what I am. I don't know how to be the man she deserves.
But maybe I can learn.
Maybe I can be something other than what I am.
Maybe I can save her.
I close my eyes. I hold her tighter. And for the first time in twenty years, I let myself dream.