“Let go,” I whisper, my voice raw, almost broken. “My beautiful girl.”
And then she’s falling, crying out, shuddering against me, and I follow, my own release ripping through me, dragging me over the edge as she clings to me, gasping, trembling, entirely mine.
Chapter 17 – Sasha
I wake up to sunlight spilling across the room, warm and quiet, like the world is pretending everything’s normal. Lev’s side of the bed is empty—his pillow cool, the sheets already neat.
For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the space where he should be. Last night drifts back in pieces—the way he held me like I might disappear, the tension running through him even when he tried to hide it, the way he kissed me like it was both an apology and a promise.
He said everything was fine, but I could feel it in him. It wasn’t.
With a sigh, I stretch, my body aching pleasantly in ways I don’t want to think too deeply about. The silence presses in, too heavy, too aware. I push myself up, head to the shower, and let the hot water wash away the memories still clinging to my skin.
When I’m done, I step into the closet and pull on something simple—jeans, a white shirt, my hair twisted up loosely. I’m not sure what today is supposed to be. A morning after? A normal day in the life of a mafia wife?
I glance toward the door, wondering where he’s gone and if he’s still angry—or worse, still worried.
Because whatever’s happening, I can feel it—something is shifting, and it’s coming closer.
Still, I decide it’s best not to bother him. If Lev’s gone this early, it’s for a reason, and I’ve learned—too quickly—that pressing him when he’s in that kind of mood leads nowhere good.
So instead, I focus my energy elsewhere. The suite feels too quiet, too big, and my mind needs something to do. I pull open the closet doors and start unpacking the rest of my luggage,sorting dresses from blouses, hanging things where they belong. It’s a small act of control in a life that suddenly feels borrowed.
Out of habit, I reach for my documents bag, meaning only to check that everything’s where I left it. My passport, ID, flight licenses—all the pieces of the life I built before this. Before him.
But when I unzip the bag, the pit of my stomach drops.
The passport is gone.
For a second, I think maybe I misplaced it. I empty the bag onto the bed, rifling through every compartment—receipts, notepads, an old boarding pass, my ID. No passport.
I freeze, realization slamming into me like cold water.
He took it.
Lev fucking confiscated my passport.
Anger flares hot in my chest. He didn’t ask. He didn’t tell me. He just took it—like I’m some possession he can lock away.
I clench the edge of the bed until my knuckles ache, forcing myself to breathe through the fury. I already know why he did it—his obsession with control, his paranoia about keeping me “safe.” But that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.
He could’ve asked.
He could’ve trusted me.
Instead, he stole it.
I don’t even try to calm down this time. My feet move before my brain catches up, fury fueling every step as I storm out of the suite and down the stairs. My heart pounds with every stride—part rage, part betrayal, part the sick realization that he’s starting to strip away pieces of me, one by one.
The moment I reach the kitchen, I spot him standing by the counter with Mikhail, both of them bent over steaming mugs of coffee like they’re discussing something normal, something mundane.
I don’t care.
“Why did you take my passport?”
Mikhail looks up, startled. Lev’s head snaps toward me, his expression unreadable. I can feel the tension in the air instantly, heavy and tight. Mikhail starts to rise, muttering something about giving us a minute, but I don’t even glance his way.
“I asked you a question, Lev,” I say, stepping closer. My voice is shaking, but it’s not fear—it’s anger. “Why would you do something like that?”
