“Non-negotiable.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
“I have to go.”
“Now?”
“Now.” He steps back, putting distance between us that feels intentional. His hand comes up to trace my swollen bottom lip, gentle for one more second. “Luka will walk you back to the room when you’re ready.”
“What’s happening?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He’s already at the door, straightening his clothes, transforming back into the cold predator who walked into the Chechen dinner last night. “Finish your food. Get some sleep.”
“Roman—”
“There’s a man in my basement who’s been waiting three hours to tell me who’s been selling poison in my territory.” He pauses at the door but doesn’t look back. “By morning, he’ll have told me everything he knows. One way or another.”
The door closes behind him.
I sit on the lab bench for a long time after he’s gone, my lips still swollen from his kisses, my skin still burning where his hands touched me.
He’s a monster,I remind myself.Don’t forget that.
But I can still taste him on my tongue, feel his thumb tracing my cheekbone. Can still hear him askingcolor?like my answer actually mattered.
I finish my dinner anyway.
And I try not to think about the screaming that might be happening somewhere beneath my feet.
ROMAN — Private Office, 07:23
Vadim is cleaning the Nagant when I walk into his office, and that’s how I know this meeting is going to be bad.
The revolver is a relic from 1895, passed down through three generations of Vory who actually earned their titles. He only touches it when he’s feeling nostalgic about violence, which means someone is about to have a very bad day.
I’m guessing that someone is me.
“Sit,” he says without looking up. The cloth moves over the barrel in slow strokes while I take the chair across from his desk and wait for whatever shit he’s about to dump in my lap.
Photographs are spread across the blotter. I can see them from here—bodies in a nightclub bathroom, teenagers with foam on their lips.
“Three children died last night in Tverskoy.” Vadim sets down the Nagant and picks up one of the photos. A girl’s face, young and pretty and completely ruined. “Sixteen years old. Birthday party. Her father is connected to three Duma members who are currently very interested in why a Volkov product is killing their daughters.”
“It’s not our product.”
“It carries our signature. Our distribution. Our reputation.” He drops the photo and looks at me with those flat amber eyes. “Three days. The Chechens arrive Friday. By then I need testable variants and proof your wife’s expertise is worth the investment I’ve made in keeping her breathing.”
“That’s not enough time—”
“Then she works faster.” He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Dmitri has been asking about her, you know. Your little performance at dinner only made him more interested. He’d like to borrow her. See if her chemistry skills translate to other forms of… compliance.”
My vision narrows to the Nagant on his desk.
“She’s my wife.”
