I heard him before I saw him—the quiet footsteps, the way the air seemed to shift when he entered a room. He didn’tsay anything as he crossed to the window seat and sat beside me, close enough that I could feel his warmth but not quite touching.
We sat in silence for a long moment, watching snow fall.
“Did you find them?” I asked finally. “The person who leaked the information?”
“Not yet.” His voice was tired in a way I rarely heard. “But we will.”
“And then?”
“Then I’ll kill them.” Said so simply, like he was discussing the weather. “Slowly, if they’ve endangered anyone I care about.”
I should have been horrified. Should have recoiled from the casual violence in his words. Instead, I just felt impossibly sad.
“Does it ever bother you?” I whispered. “The killing?”
He was quiet for so long, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “No. Not the way you think it should.”
“Why not?”
“Because every person I’ve killed was trying to kill me first. Or kill someone I protect. Or take something that belongs to me.” He turned to look at me, his pale eyes reflecting the falling snow. “I don’t kill for pleasure, Mila. I kill to survive. To protect what’s mine.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?”
“It’s supposed to make it true.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle despite everything. “You want me to be someone I’m not. Someone softer, kinder. Someone who could let threats walk away because mercy is noble.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” His thumb brushed my cheekbone. “You look at me and see two men. The one who touches you like you’reprecious. And the one who kills without flinching. You’re waiting to see which one wins.”
The accuracy of it stole my breath.
Because he was right. That was exactly what I saw when I looked at him—two versions of the same man, constantly at war. The Alexei who held me while I cried, who whispered Russian endearments against my skin, who made me feel safe and cherished and utterly claimed. And the Alexei who came home covered in blood, who gave execution orders over breakfast, who would destroy anything and anyone who threatened what was his.
When the truth about my father comes out, which part of him will win?
Chapter Twenty
Alexei’s POV
The Italians hit another Lobanov warehouse at three in the afternoon—bold, brazen, and coordinated enough that I knew immediately this wasn’t just retaliation. This was war.
I got the call from Kirill while I was in a meeting with our arms suppliers. The words were clipped, efficient—exactly what I needed.
Warehouse twelve. Under attack. Multiple casualties.
Dimitri drove like the devil was chasing us, weaving through the traffic with the kind of reckless precision that came from fifteen years of running from or toward violence. Sergei, another one of my men, called in reinforcements. As I loaded my weapons, I felt something cold and familiar settle over me—the part of myself that existed only for moments like this.
The part Mila feared.
The warehouse was in chaos when we arrived. Smoke billowed from the main building, gunfire crackling like fireworks. Bodies littered the ground—some ours, more theirs. The Italians had come heavily, at least twenty men, but they hadn’t counted on our response time.
Their mistake.
“Flank left,” I ordered, my voice steady despite the rage burning white-hot in my veins. “Kirill, take the east entrance. Dimitri, with me.”
We moved like a machine, like we’d done this a thousand times before. Because we had. The Bratva didn’t survive by being soft or hesitant. We survived by being faster, meaner, and more willing to burn the world down to protect what was ours.
The firefight was brutal and efficient. I put three rounds in the chest of a man trying to flank Kirill. Dimitri took out theirgunner with a headshot that painted the warehouse wall red. Sergei’s team cleared the east side with ruthless precision.
