When I returned to the private suite yesterday after watching the polo match with Morrison, I could tell immediately that intimacy had occurred between Victoria and Zakhar.
The way they moved around each other. The careful distance that suggested recent closeness rather than avoidance. The flush still visible on Victoria's cheeks. The satisfaction in Zakhar's eyes when he thought no one was looking.
I expected jealousy. Possessiveness. Some territorial instinct to flare up and demand exclusivity.
Instead, I felt relief. And happiness for both of them.
Zakhar spends his entire existence taking care of others. Vigilant. Protective. Always the guardian, never the one being cared for. He deserves softness. Deserves someone who sees past the soldier to the man underneath.
If Victoria can give him that, I'm grateful. Not threatened.
The realization tells me this isn't just sexual chemistry, though that certainly exists in abundance. There's depth forming. Connection beyond physical.
Maybe we can make this work. The four of us. Unconventional. Complicated. But real.
I'm contemplating this possibility when there's a sharp knock at my door.
"Come in," I call, already knowing from the particular rhythm of the knock who's on the other side.
Zakhar enters, and one look at his face tells me the morning peace is over.
His expression is grim. Controlled, as always, but I can see the fury barely contained beneath the surface. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are set in that particular way that means violence is a breath away from erupting.
"What happened?" I ask, setting down my espresso with deliberate care.
"Last night, one of the Éclat stores was hit." His voice is flat. Emotionless. Which means he's furious. "The Michigan Avenue location."
I go very still. Éclat is our chain of high-end jewelry stores. Completely legitimate. Clean books. Proper licensing. The kind of business that proves the Severyns are more than just criminals in expensive suits.
"Details," I say.
"Professional job. They disabled the alarms without triggering any backups. Got into the vault. Took close to two million in inventory." He pauses. "Whoever did it might have had inside help." Another heavy pause. “They also shot the security guard. He's in critical condition at Northwestern Memorial."
My hand finds the scarred knuckles of my other hand. Presses against the misshapen joints. I need the grounding sensation of old pain to keep newer rage from consuming me.
"Alexei is already at the hospital. Making sure the guard gets the best care available."
"Family?"
"Wife. Three-year-old son." Zakhar's voice tightens fractionally. "We have people with them. Making sure they're informed. Protected. Provided for."
I nod once. Take a slow breath. Force my mind into analytical mode instead of letting fury dictate action.
This is an attack on our legitimate business. Combined with the recent hits on our warehouses, the theft from the docks, the appearance of Valkov tattoos. This represents coordinated assault on multiple fronts.
Someone is coming for us. Systematically. Strategically.
"Theories?" I ask.
Zakhar moves to the window. Stands with his back to me, looking out at the morning light. "Albanians are the obvious suspect. But this isn't their style. They're more direct. More brutal. When Ramiz Krasniqi wants to send a message, he doesn't disable alarms. He kicks in doors."
"Could be a misdirect," I offer. "Make it look too sophisticated to be Albanian, throw us off the scent."
"Possible." He doesn't sound convinced.
"I'll reach out to Luan Krasniqi," I say, the decision forming as I speak. "See if he knows anything. See if his father is involved."
Zakhar turns to face me. "Can we trust him?"
