Her eyes twitch, heavy with sleep, a tiny smile pulling at her lips. “Is it morning already?” Her voice is thick, soft. “Do I have to wake up?”
“No,” I murmur. “You can keep sleeping. I have an early meeting, but I’ll be back soon. I just didn’t want to go without telling you.”
She hums in response, the smile still ghosting across her lips as she turns onto her side, drifting back into sleep.
I watch her for a long moment—longer than I should. Something tugs at my chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Then I quietly slip out of bed, the ache of leaving her heavier than I want to admit.
After taking a quick shower, I dress in a simple black polo and dark slacks and grab my watch from the dresser. No rings, no flash. Just Lev. A man trying not to think too much.
The house is quiet as I head downstairs, the kind of silence that comes before the storm of a celebration. The reception is later today—music, wine, too many eyes. But for now, it’s just the sound of my footsteps on marble and the faint hum of staff moving somewhere in the distance.
My private study sits at the far end of the hall. When I push the door open, Mikhail’s already there, sitting by the window with a mug of coffee in hand. He looks too awake for this hour.
“Did you sleep?” I ask, my voice low.
He glances up, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yup. But the preparation for the reception kept me up a little late. Can’t wait for it to be over today.”
Before I can respond, the door opens again, and Roman walks in.
His long brown hair is tied back in a low bun, and he carries himself with the same quiet confidence he always has. Broad-shouldered, intentional, the kind of presence that commands attention without asking for it.
He nods at Mikhail, then turns his eyes on me. “You’re up early for a man who just got married.”
I allow a small smile, leaning back against the edge of my desk. “You sound disappointed.”
Roman shrugs, a hint of amusement flickering across his face. “Not disappointed. Just surprised you’re not still upstairs…celebrating.”
Mikhail chokes on his coffee. I ignore him.
Roman looks like he hasn’t slept in days—eyes shadowed, jaw tight. I don’t mention it. He’s always been like this since his time in the military. The nightmares, the late nights, the quiet distance that no one can reach. I’ve tried before, but how do you help a man who won’t let anyone in?
He drops into the chair beside Mikhail with that careless, heavy ease of his and props his boots on the edge of my desk. I let it slide—Roman’s one of the few people alive who can get away with that here.
He doesn’t waste time. “During a recent operation in Greece,” he says, voice flat and low, “I overheard Sasha’s name.”
That gets my attention.
Roman continues, his gaze steady on me. “It was Christos Petropoulos’s men. They were talking like she still belonged to them. Something about unfinished business.”
The air between us tightens.
Mikhail sets down his mug, all traces of humor gone. “You sure they meant her? Not someone else with the same name?”
Roman shakes his head. “No. They mentioned a flight attendant. The one who cost them money and ran to the Rusnaks for cover.” His eyes flick briefly to me. “Sound familiar?”
It does. Too much.
“The context of the conversation was ominous,” Roman continues, his tone flat.
“They spoke about taking back what’s owed,” he says, pausing long enough for the words to hang in the air. “They mentioned Sasha. And her mother.”
Mikhail’s eyes widen. My pulse slows, then spikes again—a cold, steady thrum under my ribs.
“This isn’t idle talk,” Roman warns, sitting forward. The light from the window cuts sharp against his face, highlighting the sleeplessness in his eyes. “Petropoulos doesn’t throw words around. He’s patient. Ruthless. And Viktor Markovic was at that table too.”
The name drags through the study like a blade.
For a moment, I can’t move. Viktor Markovic. The man runs half of Greece’s ports and most of its bloodlines. If he and Petropoulos are in the same room, then whatever they’re planning isn’t rumor—it’s strategy.
