My father’s killer still walks free. The pact with Viktor is new and fragile. Rivals are watching for any sign of weakness. Bringing a young man—especially one as soft and unprotected as Teddy—into my world would be reckless. It would painta target on his back. Worse, it might distract me at the exact moment I need total focus.
Vengeance first.
Consolidation of power second.
Everything else comes after.
And if I am honest with myself, that “after” might never arrive. The life of a pakhan is not built for happy endings. My father learned that the hard way when my mother died and the light left his eyes. I watched him drift, grow softer, and pay for it with a bullet to the chest. I will not repeat his mistakes.
The black SUV waits at the corner exactly where I left it. I slide into the back seat, the leather cool against my back.
“New apartment,” I tell the driver, my voice cold. “No stops.”
The engine purrs to life and we merge into traffic. I stare out the window as the city blurs past, trying to push Teddy from my thoughts. It doesn’t work. His laugh when he defended his mushroom powder drink echoes in my head. The determined set of his jaw when he said “deal.” The spark in his eyes.
By the time we pull up to the old building, the removal men have already come and gone. The doorman nods respectfully as I enter, keeping his eyes down. Good. Discretion is part of what I pay for.
The apartment feels vast and echoing when I step inside. The mahogany paneling and high ceilings are as impressive as I remember—classic, solid, old-money elegance that speaks of permanence. The working fireplace sits cold and dark for now. The view through the tall windows shows the Gothic building opposite, its spires catching the last of the daylight. At night itwill glow beautifully, a reminder that some things in this city still hold beauty amid the rot.
But the space is far from a home.
The removal men have delivered the furniture—large couch, dining table, the massive four-poster bed in the master—but it all sits sparse and impersonal.
Boxes remain unopened in corners.
No photographs. No personal touches. Just functional pieces placed where they need to be. A place to lay my head. A hidden refuge away from the compound, away from the constant eyes and whispers of the family business. Somewhere I can think without the weight of expectation pressing down every second.
I pour myself a glass of vodka from the crystal decanter on the sideboard—smooth, chilled, the good stuff imported from home. The first sip burns pleasantly down my throat. I carry the glass to the large couch and sink into it, the leather creaking under my weight. The city lights are beginning to flicker on outside, painting the room in shifting patterns of gold and shadow.
I hadn’t planned to linger on thoughts of the boy.
But before I know it, my mind fills with images of Teddy.
His small, strong body. The way his cheeks flush when he confronts me. The sway of his hips and the flex of his ass as he stomps away in irritation.
In my fantasy, we are still in the café…
Instead of shaking hands on our deal, I pull him across the table and over my lap right there in the booth. His shocked gasp makes me stiffen. The way he squirms as I remove his briefs,exposing his pale, soft skin. My hand comes down firm and deliberate—spank after spank—correcting that bratty mouth, turning his protests into whimpers and then moans.
“You will learn to speak to me properly, malysh,” I growl in the fantasy, my voice low and commanding. My fingers slip between his thighs afterward, finding him hard and ready, rewarding him for taking his punishment so well. He arches into my touch, needy and desperate, his bright optimism melting into sweet submission.
The fantasy spirals wild and fast.
I set the vodka glass aside, my hand moving to my belt without conscious thought. Stroking myself to the image of Teddy bent over, ass red from my palm, begging in that sweet voice while I drive him higher. His calling me Daddy. He is trusting me completely.
It hits hard and sudden. I cum with a low groan, spilling over my fist in sharp, intense pulses that leave me breathing raggedly against the back of the couch.
For a few blissful seconds, the dopamine wave washes over me—warm, heavy, almost peaceful.
Then it fades. Of course it does. That’s always the way.
And then the apartment feels even emptier than before. The high ceilings and impressive moldings only emphasize the silence. The Gothic building across the way now looks cold and distant in the growing dark.
I am alone again, as always.
A pakhan in a sparse apartment, surrounded by luxury that means nothing without someone to share it with.
I reach for the vodka and pour another glass, larger this time. The burn this round feels sharper, more necessary.
