What else could I say?
I’m completely out of my depth?
I don’t know who I am anymore?
I’m starting to want him, and that scares me more than anything else?
Anya didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she looped her arm through mine again and leaned her head on my shoulder. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything. Even the scary stuff.Especiallythe scary stuff.”
“I know.” And I did. Anya had always been there, even back when I had tried to keep her at a distance because our worlds felt too different. “I just need time to figure out what I’m feeling.”
“Fair enough.” She squeezed my arm. “Just remember—you’re not alone in this. Whatever happens, you’ve got me. And despite everything, Alexei cares about you. I can tell.”
I wanted to ask her how she could tell. What signs did she see that I must be missing? But I was afraid of the answer, so I just nodded and let her change the subject back to flower arrangements and whether peonies were too cliché for a Russian wedding.
**********
In the afternoon, I found my way to the library again, actually trying to read this time—a thriller in English that I found buried between volumes of Russian literature—when Alexei appeared in the doorway. He was dressed for business: charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, the kind of tailoring that costmore than most people’s monthly rent. His dark auburn hair was perfectly styled, and those hazel eyes were sharp and assessing, as usual.
This was the version of him that negotiated shipping routes. This was the Pakhan’s cousin, not the man who held me like I was something precious last night.
“Get your coat,” he said, unblinking. Not a request.
I closed my book slowly, trying to ignore the way my pulse kicked up at the command in his voice. “Where are we going?”
“The docks. I want you to see something.”
I should have refused. I should have told him I was not some doll he could drag around. But there was something in his expression—not quite a challenge, but close—that made me want to see what he was offering.
So I got my coat.
The drive to the docks took about forty minutes, and Alexei spent most of it on his phone, switching between Russian and English with the ease of someone who had lived in multiple worlds. I watched the city slide past the window—gray buildings and gray sky, people hurrying through their lives completely unaware that empires were being built and destroyed in the spaces between their mundane days.
When we arrived, I understood immediately why he brought me here. It wasn’t a romantic gesture; it was a demonstration of power.
The docks were massive—container ships and warehouses, cranes reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, men moving with purpose through organized chaos. And at the center of it all was Alexei, walking like he owned every inch of concrete and steel. Well, he did. And I was right beside him.
Men stepped aside as we walked past. Not obviously, but I noticed. The subtle shift in posture, the way conversations paused and resumed only after we’d moved on. They all carriedguns—some more visible than others—hanging at their sides like accessories they’d worn so long they’d forgotten they were there.
Alexei led me through the labyrinth of containers and warehouses, one hand resting lightly on the small of my back. To anyone watching, it probably looked protective. Possessive. And maybe it was both of those things. But to me, it felt grounding. Like he was tethering me to something solid while showing me exactly how deep the darkness went.
“This is where most of our legitimate operations run,” he told me, gesturing to a warehouse where men were unloading crates with systematic efficiency. “Electronics, mostly. Some textiles. All above board, all properly documented.”
“And the illegitimate ones?”
His lips curved into something that might be a smile on someone else. On him, it was just a slight softening of the edges. “Those don’t happen here.”
We walked further, past rows of containers stacked like giant metal building blocks. Alexei explained the logistics in a way that made it sound almost boring—shipping routes and customs forms and the complex dance of moving goods across borders. But I was good with numbers, good at seeing the patterns underneath the surface, and I understood all that he was really showing me.
This was an empire. Built on legitimate business, yes, but funded and protected by the kind of operations that didn’t appear on tax forms. Money laundering, probably. Maybe smuggling. Definitely things that would make my old forensic accounting professors weep.
And it was all his.
We were approaching another warehouse when a man stepped out—mid-thirties, thick-necked, with the kind of swagger that suggested he was used to being the biggest threat in the room. He took one quick look at Alexei, and his expressionshifted to something that might be respect but looked more like calculation.
“Sir,” the man said in heavily accented English. “We have a problem with the shipment from Rotterdam.”
Alexei stopped, and I could feel his hand press slightly harder against my back. “What kind of problem?”
