She's turning me into someone I don't recognize.
I should kill her. Should let her go. Should do something other than stand here shaking, tasting her defiance on my tongue, seeing those bloody footprints leading me somewhere I can't come back from.
The game has shifted into something neither of us expected, something that tastes like blood and cum and obsession.
And the worst part? I don't want it to stop.
12 - Alexei
The man on his knees is crying, and all I can think about is Sofia’s mouth. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll let him keep his tongue.
Artem Semenov. Forty-three. Wife, two kids. Has been skimming from gun shipments for eight months. I've known for seven.
Four captains sit around my conference table, the air thick with fear-sweat and expensive cologne. Artem's hands are bound, face already bloody from being dragged from his bed an hour ago. The metallic scent of his blood mingles with his terror, but it's not enough to erase the phantom taste of her from my tongue.
"Eight months, Artem." My voice stays soft. The quieter I speak, the more they lean in. "You've been stealing from me."
"Please. I have children."
"You should have thought of them before you touched what was mine."
The knife slides from my belt, the weight familiar in my palm. Sharp enough to part skin like butter. I crouch, testing the edge with my thumb as Artem whimpers.
"It's about trust." I force his right hand flat against the floor, the hand that signed falsified manifests. "You broke mine."
The flashback hits without warning. Sofia on her knees, mascara running down her cheeks, her mouth stretched around my cock, the vibration of her moan making my vision blur. Thememory so vivid I'm half-hard before I can stop myself, tasting her defiance like copper on my tongue.
I blink hard. Focus.
The blade goes through bone like butter. Index finger first. Artem's scream echoes off the walls. Blood sprays hot across the hardwood. Middle finger next. More screaming that I barely hear over the memory of her voice, hoarse and wrecked, my cock still throbbing from her mouth when she smiled up at me like she'd won.
I wipe the knife clean on his shirt, stand in one fluid motion. "Get him out. If I see him in Chicago again, I'll take the rest piece by piece."
Guards drag Artem away, leaving a red trail across my floor. The captains remain frozen.
This is who I am. This is what I do.
"Does that bother you?" Her phantom voice, defiant even after swallowing every drop.
My hand tightens on the knife handle until my knuckles crack.
"Productive morning."
The voice comes from the corner, smooth as Belvedere vodka. A figure steps from shadow. Tall, lean, dark hair slicked back. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. The temperature drops ten degrees.
Kazimir Volkov. My cousin. The only man in Chicago who could call me weak and live. The only one who loved Mikhail as fiercely as I did.
"Kaz." I slide the knife back into my belt. "I didn't know you were in Chicago."
"Flew in last night." He claims a seat without invitation, the leather creaking under his weight. "Thought I'd see how things were progressing with the Rosetti situation."
My captains exchange glances, sensing the danger like animals before a storm.
"Imagine my surprise," Kaz continues, examining his manicured nails, "when I learned she's still breathing."
"The Rosetti girl is my concern."
"Is she?" His eyes find mine, cold as Moscow winter. "Because from what I hear, she's been your concern for a week now. Eating your food. Wearing clothes you bought. Attending galas on your arm."
