His only response was to clutch the truck tighter and turn away.
Business doesn’t stop. It can’t. I’m running the Bratva, putting out fires, brokering deals, and crushing anyone stupid enough to stand in my way.
Control. Calm. I hold the chaos in my hands and don’t let a single piece drop.
And yet, none of it prepared me for this.
This little trespasser—this audacious, infuriating little burglar—is testing every ounce of control I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting.
I stand up calmly from the leather seat, the glass still clutched in my fingers. I’ve never felt this kind of intrigue burning under my skin—not in years. Being a father of three means I’m supposed to have my priorities in order. Business, family, control—those are the cornerstones of my life. I’ve bled to build one of the biggest real estate empires in California and beyond. I’ve killed to cement the Bratva’s power right here on American soil. None of it came cheap.
Now? My heart drums a savage beat in my ears, mocking the self-control I’ve prided myself on.
The sound of the shower running is torture. Pure, unadulterated torture. Steam curls beneath the bathroom door like a taunt, and I find myself pacing the reading room like a caged animal.
I drag a hand over my hair, forcing myself to breathe. Control. Always. Control.
I’m not proud of how long I stand there, staring at that door. Listening. Imagining. Every drop of water cascading over her body seems like a personal attack. I’ve never been a man who loses control easily, but the thought of her in my shower, with her hair wet and her hands sliding over every inch of her skin…
“Get a grip of yourself,” I growl under my breath, though it sounds more like a plea than an order.
And then she appears.
The bathroom door creaks open, releasing a rolling wave of steam into the room. My breath catches, and for a moment, my heart forgets how to beat. She steps forward, bare feet padding softly against the hardwood. Her hair is wet, droplets sliding down her collarbone to gather in the hollow of her throat. Even in the low light, I can see the water glistening against her skin, following the delicate curve from her neck all the way down to the plush swell of her breasts.
She’s wearing my towel.Suka. It’s not enough to fully cover the full, tempting roundness of her chest. The plush beige fabric hugs her curves, barely managing to hold her in, revealing an expanse of smooth thigh and the tantalizing shape of her hips. Each breath she takes seems to strain against the cotton, making it clear just how little barrier there is between her and me.
“Blyad,” I mutter, fingers curling into a fist.
Seven years, five months, and three days since Irina vanished. Not that I’ve been counting. And it’s not like I’ve been celibate—I’m a man, not a fucking monk. But those women were transactions, simple exchanges of pleasure without complications.
This is different.
No woman—not Irina, not anyone—has ever been in this bedroom. This space isn’t for them. It’s mine. The only place in this mansion that feels like me, not thePakhan. This is where I come to think, to breathe, to be something other than the man the world demands me to be.
The portrait hangs here, dominating one wall like a silent judge. My mother had it commissioned years ago, though she never explained why. She found the best artist in Moscow—someone whose clients were oligarchs and kings—and insisted he paint me. I hated the idea at the time, told her it was a waste of money, but she didn’t care. She never did when she decided something was worth doing.
When the painting arrived, she hung it without a word, her expression giving nothing away. But I knew. It wasn’t vanity—it was her way of reminding me who I was or who I could become. A son she was proud of, even if she didn’t say it out loud.
I let her do it. The only thing she could do or decide. It was my way of giving her something—my way of saying I cared without saying a damn word.
But never in my lifetime did I think that portrait would lead me to this moment.
The woman’s voice breaks the quiet, low and muttering, the kind of sound meant for herself, not me.
“Don’t look at him,” she says, her tone half-command, half-plea. “Don’t you dare look at—”
She cuts herself off, and my brow lifts before I can stop it. What in the actual hell is this woman doing?
My feet refuse to move, stuck as if I’ve been nailed to the floor. I don’t want to look at her, don’t want to acknowledge this ridiculous situation, but my body betrays me. My gaze lands squarely on her as the scene unfolds before me like some fever dream I can’t wake from.
“This is your fault,” she says suddenly, her hand gesturing at herself, her expression a mix of frustration and… something else. “You and your… your everything. Who gave you permission to look like that while I’m high and vulnerable and—”
She stops mid-sentence, her shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world is pressing down on them. Her head tilts forward slightly, and I catch the way her fingers tremble as they tighten on the edge of the towel.
I’ve seen men break under interrogation, seen fear in its rawest, most unfiltered form. This isn’t that. She’s not afraid. This is something else entirely, something so absurdly human that I don’t even have a word for it.
And then, she glances at the bed.
