I shower and dress with methodical precision, choosing a charcoal suit and navy tie. The routine grounds me, prepares me for what comes next. Violence requires the same discipline as business. The same cold calculation. Emotion makes you sloppy, and sloppy gets people killed.
But as I knot my tie, my mind drifts to Eva. The way she looked Friday night in that elevator, her lips swollen from my kiss, her brown eyes dark with desire. The memory makes my cock harden despite the morning's grim purpose. I imagine her in my bed, that blonde hair spread across my pillows, her body bare and willing beneath mine. The fantasy is vivid enough that I have to adjust myself, cursing under my breath.
And then the way her eyes looked at me with hurt and accusation when Daria showed up. A stab of something like remorse went through my chest. I wanted to explain to her, wanted Eva to know that Daria means nothing to me. But she left the office before I could get the chance. As soon as it was time to leave, she was on the elevator, not giving me the opportunity to explain anything.
Focus, you fool.
By the time I arrive at the office, I've compartmentalized the desire into something manageable. Eva is already at her desk when I step off the elevator, and the sight of her makes my chest tighten with want I can't afford. She's wearing a cream-colored dress that hugs her curves, and when she stands to greet me, I catch a glimpse of her legs that makes my hands itch to slide up her thighs.
"Good morning, Mr. Sokolov." Her voice is steady, professional, but I see the way her pulse flutters at her throat. She's remembering Friday night too.
"Miss Markova." I force myself to walk past her office, even though every instinct screams to pull her into mine, close the door, and finish what we started in that elevator.
Lev arrives shortly after, his expression grim. We don't discuss our destination in the office. Too many ears, too many potential leaks. I simply tell Eva we have an off-site meeting and will return this afternoon.
The drive to Red Hook takes forty minutes through morning traffic. Lev drives while I review intelligence reports on my phone, but my attention keeps drifting.
"You're distracted," Lev observes, his voice neutral.
"I'm focused on what needs to be done."
"Are you?" He glances at me, his dark eyes knowing. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're thinking about your secretary instead of the interrogation we're about to conduct."
I don't deny it. There's no point lying to Lev. "I can handle both."
"Can you?" His tone suggests doubt, but he doesn't push further.
The warehouse sits on a quiet street near the waterfront, one of several properties my organization owns for situations requiring privacy. We enter through a side door, and my security team nods as we pass. The main floor is empty except for a single chair in the center, and the man zip-tied to it.
He's maybe thirty, with the kind of hard face that comes from years of violence. His nose is broken, blood crusted beneath it, and one eye is swollen shut from the initial capture. But the other eye tracks our approach with the resignation of someone who knows exactly what's coming.
I remove my cufflinks with deliberate precision, setting them on a nearby table. Then I roll up my sleeves, revealing the prison tattoos that mark my forearms. Cathedral domes. Stars. The symbols of my rank, my history, my capacity for violence.
The soldier's good eye widens slightly. He recognizes the ink, knows what it means. Knows who I am.
"You killed one of my men," I say, my voice low and controlled. "Execution-style. In my territory."
He says nothing, but I see his jaw tighten.
I circle him slowly, my footsteps echoing in the empty warehouse. "I'm going to ask you questions. You're going to answer them. How this goes depends entirely on your cooperation."
Still nothing.
I nod at Lev, who produces a knife from his jacket. The blade catches the light filtering through the dirty windows, and the man's breathing quickens.
The interrogation is brutal and efficient. I don't enjoy violence the way some men do, but I'm exceptionally good at it. Years of survival in Siberian prison camps taught me exactly how much pain a body can endure, exactly where to apply pressure to break someone's will without killing them too quickly.
I need to know if Abram ordered the hit. Need to understand the full scope of Yakovlev's plan. Need proof that will justify retaliation without triggering the war he wants.
But he says nothing. Confirms nothing. Even as Lev's knife opens shallow cuts across his chest, even as I break fingers with methodical precision, he maintains his silence. Either he's more loyal than I expected or he's more afraid of Abram than he is of me.
After an hour, I step back, my knuckles bruised, my shirt sleeves spotted with blood despite my care. Dmitri slumps in the chair, barely conscious, his face a mask of pain and defiance.
"He's not going to talk," Lev says quietly.
I know he's right. Some men can't be broken, no matter how much pain you inflict. It's almost admirable, in a way. Almost.
"Finish it," I order.
