I looked at her, expression blank. "Vanessa, merging two family operations takes time. I don't have room for this right now."
She knew I was lying, but twenty-some years of privilege wouldn'tlet her beg. And she was already enjoying the perks of being the future Mrs. Thorne—the title alone got her into circles she'd never cracked before. She could burn through my credit cards, use the Thorne name to do whatever the hell she wanted in New York.
Six months later, with the Zaitsev resources behind us, the bratva expanded. Vanessa stopped questioning me, even when I kept pushing back the wedding date.
Two years after that, her father's bastard son took over Zaitsev. She and her mother barely had a foothold in the family anymore. She was desperate to hold onto me as her lifeline. That's when I agreed to marry her—with conditions. No ceremony. Separate residences. She couldn't see Olei.
A lot happened over the next few years, but I kept moving closer to my goal. Year five, my father got sick. The doctors gave him a year, tops.
"Silas, the Thorne family is yours now." He called me to his bedside, those cloudy eyes fixed on me.
Just like that, I became Pakhan. Within a year, I'd doubled our territory through sheer brutality. That year, my life was nothing but killing and negotiating. I realized I didn't feel anything anymore. The only time I felt warmth was late at night, watching Olei sleep.
And then, when I didn't need the Zaitsevs anymore, I anonymously handed the FBI everything on their drug network. I watched their warehouses get raided, their distributors arrested, their operation crumble overnight.
Vanessa's father went to prison. Her mother was under my control. And Vanessa herself was tied to the chair in front of me.
"You backstabbing bastard!" Vanessa's voice dragged me back to the present. "Six years! You used my family's resources, you used us to swallow up everything, and now you betray us?"
"Betray?" I exhaled smoke. "Vanessa, you grew up in this world. Haven't you learned lesson one yet? We don't have allies. Just temporary partnerships."
Vanessa's eyes went wide. Her teeth clenched. "You're a monster, Silas. You don't have a heart."
"Maybe. Agreeing to the merger was always about leverage." I pulled out a stack of photos from my jacket and tossed them at her. "Vanessa, you think I didn't know why you can't have kids? The photos of you at those group-sex parties abroad—they hit my desk six years ago. You weren't born infertile. You wrecked yourself with your own degeneracy."
Vanessa went pale. She looked down at the scattered photos, each one exposing her disgusting private life during her time overseas. But soon, a twisted smile crept across her face, like she was trying to salvage the last shred of Zaitsev's dignity.
"You think you control everything, Silas? But you don't know about Anthea..." Vanessa's voice stopped. Her expression went cold. "You fell in love with her, didn't you? These six years, I've watched you keep her ashes in a pendant around your neck. You have no idea how badly she wanted to see you before she died, do you?"
"Shut up." It felt like someone punched me in the lungs.
Every word out of this woman's mouth was poison.
"But where were you, Silas? You caused her death." Vanessa kept going, eyes bright with malice. "You think killing me will give her justice? The person you should kill is yourself."
My hand froze. The cigarette slipped from my fingers. She was right. Even if I destroyed Vanessa's family, sent her father to prison, killed her—it wouldn't bring Anthea back. It wouldn't fill the void she left.
"Lock her up." I turned to Marcus standing nearby, my voice hoarse.
Vanessa was still screaming as they dragged her away, but I couldn't hear it anymore.
I'd waited six years, laid the groundwork for six years, and finally torn it all down. And now what?
The manor felt emptier than ever at night. Silver moonlight spilled across the floors, coating everything in a haze.
I pushed open my son's bedroom door. Olei was already in bed, clutching a storybook, his eyes brightening slightly when he saw me.
"Dad." His voice was soft.
Every time I looked at Olei, it was like being flayed alive. He was six now, just started first grade. He had my dark brown hair, but Anthea's amber eyes.
His eyes were clear, sensitive. When he looked at me, there was always something cautious in them. It reminded me of Anthea—she used to look at me the same way, with that careful mix of fear and longing.
"Still awake?" I tried to soften my voice around him.
"I was waiting for you." He held out the book. "You promised you'd read to me."
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the worn storybook.
