"I think you are making choice." Pyotr shrugs. "Good or bad, I don't know. But is your choice. Not your father's. Not the families'. Yours."
"And if it gets me killed?"
"Then at least you die for a choice you made. Not for tradition."His mouth curves slightly. "Besides, I owe you my life. If you want to spend yours on American waitress, that is your right."
"You'd follow me even if you think I'm wrong?"
"I follow you because you are my Pakhan. Because you saved me when no one else would. Because your word is law." He meets my eyes. "But also because my boss deserve to be happy. Even if it mean blonde American who cause political shitstorm."
I almost laugh. Almost.
"Tell Misha we move at dawn. Dmitri's drug warehouse on the east side. I want it burned to the ground."
He nods once, then heads back to his post by the elevator. The bag of Doritos goes with him.
I stand in my kitchen, surrounded by luxury that feels empty, thinking about choices and consequences. Weighing tradition versus desire. Debating my father's memory and my own future. Contemplating whether I'm strong enough to choose for myself for once.
The bedroom door is still slightly ajar. Lila's form is visible under the covers, peaceful.
Looking at her now, I can’t help but think that maybe it's time I built a new future.
Maybe it's time I chose what truly belongs to me.
Her.
14
LILA
I wake up naked.
Not just naked—completely bare, morning light streaming through windows that don't open. The kind of exposure that makes you hyperaware of your own skin. The sheet lies tangled around my legs.
And then I remember why.
Last night. Ivan. Everything we did.
My face heats even though I'm alone. I can still feel the ghost of his hands, the weight of him, the way he made me feel both utterly powerless and safe at the same time.
That's the part that makes my brain short-circuit—how safe I felt. How right it felt to give up control, to let him take what he wanted, to stop thinking and feel.
He doesn't make me scared anymore.
The realization presses down on my chest. A week ago, I was terrified. Now I'm lying in his bed, naked, satisfied… and already thinking about when he'll touch me again.
Maybe none of what I’m feeling is real. Maybe it's a really erotic chapter of my life—weird, intense, incredibly unsustainable—and I should enjoy it while it lasts. Like a vacation from reality. A dark, twisted, orgasm-filled vacation.
I sit up, and my muscles protest. There are marks on my hips from his fingers. A slight soreness between my legs that makes me flush thinking about how it got there.
My clothes are gone. All of them. I check the floor, the chair, and under the bed. Nothing.
"Are you kidding me?"
I wrap the sheet around myself toga-style and pad to the bathroom. My reflection looks thoroughly fucked—messy hair, swollen lips, pink cheeks.
That glow people talk about, but I always thought was made up? Turns out it's real. You really do look different after good sex.
No, great sex.
