"Not yet. Call if you hit a wall." I hung up, leaning back in the chair, the robe falling open slightly as I stared into the darkness. An hour. It felt like an eternity and a blink. My mind churned. Boris was Father's enforcer, a man with a reputation for ruthlessness, his hands clean on paper but bloodied in the shadows. If he was tied to Aurelia's pain... God, I'd make him pay. The thought of anyone hurting her ignited a rage I'd rarely felt, a primal urge to protect what was mine. She was mine, body, soul, the light in my darkness. Whatever he had done, he'd regret it.
The minutes dragged, the clock on my phone ticking mercilessly. I paced the living room, cigar in hand, the plush carpet silent under my feet, the suite's opulence mocking my restlessness. Aurelia slept on, oblivious, but her murmurs echoed in my head, each one a dagger.Please... I can’t breathe. I'm sorry.What the fuck had happened to her? The vulnerability in her sleep, the way she'd frozen at the party. It all pointed to trauma, deep and scarring. I'd seen enough in my world. Betrayals, violence, to recognize thesigns, but seeing it in her, the woman who'd made me feel human again, gutted me.
My phone buzzed at 5:27, Victor's name flashing. The email followed seconds later: "Dossier Attached. All requested info included." I opened it immediately, the screen's glow illuminating my face in the dark room as I scrolled through the attachment, a comprehensive PDF thick with details.
Personal: Boris Morozov, born Yuri Volkov in St. Petersburg, 1989. Changed name at 18 after fleeing Russia following a family feud tied to organized crime. No known living family. Parents deceased in a "car accident", younger sister disappeared at 15. Habits: Early riser, heavy drinker, frequents underground boxing rings for "stress relief." Lives alone in a fortified penthouse on the Upper East Side, security detail 24/7.
Financial: Net worth around $150 million, hidden through shell companies in Cyprus and the Caymans. Income from “consulting” with Krogen Enterprises, real estate flips in Eastern Europe, and off-book deals like arms trading and debt collection. Roughly $80 million laundered through art auctions. Fitting for a man posing as an art curator.
Off-record: Extensive criminal history. Narrowly escaped FBI scrutiny in 2018 for involvement in a human trafficking ring. Turned informant on a competitor for immunity. Ties to Father date back 8 years, recruited after a botched deal in Moscow. Now handles "sensitive operations," including the Butcher countermeasures.
The Aurelia connection was buried in a subsection, but it leaped out like a flare:Morozov/Harlan Link to Aurelia Sterling.Mystomach dropped as I clicked, the details unfolding like a nightmare.
Derek Harlan, Boris’s primary alias, presented himself as an art curator with a carefully fabricated history. His first contact with Aurelia Sterling dates back to April 2021, at a small coffee shop near her internship at a Manhattan design firm. Surveillance photos show him appearing in the background multiple times over several weeks, behind her, across the street, standing in line. His positioning changed each time, suggesting deliberate observation rather than coincidence.
When he finally approached, they bonded over shared passions for design, architecture, and the emotional language of art, “how beauty could hide pain,” as one of his texts later read. Their relationship escalated quickly. Dinners, gallery visits, and midnight walks through the city, captured in a series of photos, laughing, intimate, hands intertwined. To anyone watching, they looked like a couple in love.
Then came a trip. Harlan invited her to accompany him on what he called a “professional excursion” to Europe, to assist in the restoration of a private art collection. On the way to the airport, he sedated her. Aurelia lost consciousness mid-flight.
A soft creak pulled me from the screen. Aurelia leaned on the bedroom doorframe, her gown rumpled, eyes sleepy but alert, watching me. "Keith? What are you doing up?"
I set the phone aside, rising quickly. "Couldn't sleep. You okay?"
She nodded faintly, but her eyes were shadowed. I approached, taking her hand, leading her to the couch in the living room. "Come here."
I lay back, pulling her beside me, her face to my chest, arm around her waist. She snuggled in, her breath evening. "I'm sorry for the scene at the party," she murmured, voice muffled against my skin. "I didn't mean to run off like that."
I stroked her hair, the waves silky under my fingers. "You didn't make a scene. You were brave, coming back at all. And if anyone made you uncomfortable, they're the problem, not you. You're my light in all this. Don't ever apologize for needing space."
She relaxed slightly, her body softening as she melted into me, but her voice was still fragile, like she was holding herself together by threads.
“It was him,” she whispered. “Derek… or Boris… whatever he calls himself now.”
My jaw clenched, but I kept my voice steady, gentle. “Tell me.”
She hesitated, her fingers tracing slow circles over my chest as if grounding herself.
“Four years ago,” she began, “I was interning at a small design firm in Manhattan. Rushed, overwhelmed, always carrying my sketchbook everywhere. One morning, I was at a corner coffee shop, going through ideas before work. He saw my sketches and stopped. Said he was an art curator… that he specialized in underground collections and private restorations.” Her breath shook.
“He knew exactly what to say. He told me my lines were ‘emotional,’ that the way I balanced symmetry and chaos reminded him of lost European architects. No one had ever talked about my work like that. He made me feel… special.”
Her voice drifted, her eyes staring at something far away.
“We started meeting more. Lunch breaks turned into gallery visits, evenings discussing design philosophy. He was charming, soft-spoken, intelligent, the kind of man who listened so intensely you felt important. We walked through hidden galleries in Chelsea, and he knew every artist, every texture, every forgotten piece. He’d tell me, ‘Beauty is the quietest kind of power, Aurelia.’” She swallowed hard.
“I trusted him. Completely. He never pushed, never crossed a line. Not then. He played the long game. Made me think I was the one choosing him.”
Her fingers curled slightly against my chest.
“Three months later, he invited me on a trip. Said a private collection in Prague needed restoration drafts and he wanted my opinion. I thought it was my shot. My real break. I was naïve. We drove toward the airport, talking about future plans, collaborations, my portfolio. He handed me a bottle of water, smiling like always. ‘Stay hydrated,’ he said. ‘It’s a long flight.’”
Her voice cracked.
“I drank it. It tasted normal. But halfway there… my vision blurred. My limbs felt heavy. I tried to ask him what was happening and he just… watched me. Like he’d been waiting for that moment.”
Her breathing quickened. I threaded my fingers through her hair, steadying her.
“You’re safe,” I murmured. “You can stop—”
