Do I tell him? Do I look into those gray eyes and ask him if he knew? If he’s known all along and has been playing me the way his father played everyone else?
It shouldn’t matter. That’s what I tell myself. Of course he knew, why wouldn’t he? It was different, though, when Alexei was just some asshole I didn’t know. When all I cared about was my father, and Alexei didn’t matter.
Or do I keep it to myself, hold it close like another weapon, another piece of leverage in a war that never really ended?
I can’t think straight. My pulse hammers in my ears, my breath uneven.
I thought I was beginning to understand him. To trust him, even in small, broken pieces. I thought maybe, beneath the violence and lies, there was a man who wanted more than blood on his hands.
Now all I can see is his father’s name, black ink etched over my father’s death.
The worst part? I don’t know if it changes anything between us. That terrifies me most of all.
***
I spend most of the next day avoiding him. It isn’t hard; Alexei has his empire to manage, his endless calls and meetings, his men trailing after him like dogs waiting for scraps.
I make excuses to be elsewhere, bury myself in paperwork that doesn’t need my eyes, linger in corners where no one bothers me. Every time his voice echoes down the hall, my stomach twists. The file still burns in my mind, every line of ink a wound I can’t stop touching.
By late afternoon, I force myself to join a training session with his men. I’ve been doing it more often, mostly to prove I can, partly to remind myself I’m not just the woman sitting beside him in meetings. I can still fight. I can still bare my teeth. The men circle with knives dulled at the tips, fists wrapped in tape, sweat dripping under the bare bulbs.
I spar with one of them, a broad-shouldered man who underestimates me the second we face off. He grins, lazy, already certain he’ll win. It makes my blood boil. He lunges, I sidestep, and the smirk never leaves his face. Something in me snaps.
“Take me seriously,” I snarl, driving my elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him grunt. He staggers back, shock flashing in his eyes. The other men laugh under their breath, but I don’t. My pulse hammers, rage rising so sharp it blinds me.
The room stills. All eyes are on me now. I feel Alexei’s presence before I see him. He stands at the edge of the mat, arms folded, gray eyes fixed on me. His men straighten instantly, waiting for his word, but he says nothing. Just watches as I wipe sweat from my face, jaw tight, chest heaving.
I leave the mat without another word.
He finds me later in the hall, when the sweat has dried and I’ve convinced myself no one will call me on the outburst. He doesn’t waste time.
“You’re distracted,” he says. It isn’t a question.
“I’m fine.”
His gaze sharpens. “You snapped at Milan like you wanted to cut his throat.”
“He wasn’t taking me seriously.”
“You don’t care about that.” His voice is calm, low, but there’s steel under it. “Something else is eating you.”
I force myself to meet his eyes, even though my heart is racing. “I’m just tired.”
For a moment, I think he’ll press, drag the truth out of me whether I want to give it or not. He doesn’t. He studies me, searching for cracks in my lie, then gives a short nod. “Rest, then.”
The simplicity of it stings worse than any interrogation. He doesn’t believe me, but he lets it go. The tension between us lingers like smoke after fire, heavy and choking.
***
Later, when the house has gone quiet, I return to the war room. The file waits where I left it, tucked beneath stacks of ledgers. My hands shake as I pull it free again.
I read slower this time, forcing myself to look past the surface. I study every name, every date, every signature. The pieces slot together like bones of a corpse long buried.
The officials who signed off on the operation aren’t relics of the past. They’re still here. Ministers. Judges. Men in suits who shake hands on television and preach justice with polished smiles. Men who hide behind layers of legal immunity and deep-rooted alliances while blood stains their cuffs.
My father wasn’t silenced because he owed money, or because he crossed the wrong Bratva boss. He was silenced because he tried to expose them. He saw too much, spoke too loudly, and they erased him before the truth could spread.
The realization hollows me out. All this time, I thought revenge meant cutting into the Bratva, bleeding Alexei’s empire dry until it collapsed. I thought his world killed my father. But it wasn’t that simple. It never is.
