The meeting breaks up an hour later. The men file out, some of them exchanging glances that they think I don't notice. I notice everything. Every look, every hesitation that betrays what they're really thinking.
Alexei is still sitting in place, a pool of blood around his hand, white-faced. I look at him evenly.
“Pull it out and you can go.”
Viktor hasn’t left yet. He sits impassively next to me, and I stare at Alexei. “The staff needs to come in and clean this room. Pull it out.”
He lets out a small whimper of pain, and I slide the gun resting at the small of my back free of its holster. I level it at him.
“Alexei.” Viktor’s voice is a low warning. I can see him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I don’t know if he thinks I’m taking this too far, but I’m fucking sick of it. I’m sick of seeing their shifty glances and hearing their excuses. I’m the goddamnPakhan, my father’s heir, and I have done everything within my power to earn their respect over the past year.
It’s past time they gave it.
“Pull it out,” I repeat.
Alexei looks as if he’s going to vomit. He cries out the moment his hand touches the car key, his fingers shaking as they close around it. His lips press tightly together as he lets out another whimper, right before he jerks the key free.
A wail of pain escapes him, and he clenches his fist around the keys. I lower my gun.
“Get out,” I tell him flatly. “Now.”
He scrambles up from the chair, clutching his hand, and flees.
"They're pushing," Viktor says quietly once the others are gone.
“Da,” I snap.Yes.
"You know what needs to happen."
I blow out a sharp breath.You need to be tougher. Harder. Crueler.I’ve heard this from Viktor, from others, again and again. I’ve known it every time men question me or make excuses for failures, lateness, or slip-ups.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, glance at the screen, and feel my jaw tighten further.
The text is from one of the men I sent on a simple job this morning—a kidnapping. The Volkov family has been pushing their boundaries, and I made a call to change that. Katya Volkov, the eldest daughter, is being brought to me. I’ll hold her hostage until her father makes the agreements necessary to release her, and then Dmitri Volkov will know to toe the line in the future. It will have the added benefit of being the kind of response that my men will respect, which can always help me.
We have her. In the office.
Good. One thing is going right today, at least.
"I need to handle something," I tell Viktor. "Keep an eye on Alexei. I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he talks to."
Viktor nods sharply and stands as I do, following me out.
—
I walk downthe hallways to my office in another wing of the mansion. My shoes click sharply against the hardwood floor, and I exhale with each stride, calming myself. I need to be cool and unflappable when I see Katya, the kind of man who inspires fear with his confidence. She needs to believe that if her father doesn’t cooperate, things will go very badly for her, even if I would never actually harm a woman.
I push open the door and step inside. I smell a hint of a woman’s perfume, a salty, floral scent, and I realize that the salt is sweat. From fear, I think at first, and then I look at her and see that she’s wearing workout clothes. Grey leggings with hot pink netting up the sides are molded to long, shapely legs and a perfectly curved ass, and a tight mint-colored tank top is glued to her flat stomach, narrow waist, and perfectly sized tits. Honey-blonde hair is piled up in a ponytail that’s come half loose, spilling a lot of it around her face, and for some inexplicable reason, the sight of this gorgeous woman tied to a chair in my office with the scent of her sweat in my nose sends a jolt of pure lust through my body. It feels like an electric shock, my cock twitching and swelling instantly against my thigh, so abruptly that I have to bite back a groan of desire.
And then, the last detail of her hair cuts through the sudden fog of arousal, and I blink.
Honey-blonde hair. Katya Volkov has platinum blonde hair, nearly ice-white. And it’s short, not long and bouncy like this woman’s.
They grabbed the wrong woman. A simple job, a straightforward kidnapping, and somehow my men managed to fuck it up.
The anger that's been simmering all morning flares hotter. I stare at the woman tied to the chair for a moment longer, staying just out of her line of sight. She’s moving slightly in the chair, tugging at the restraints a little as if she can’t help herself, but she’s not actively fighting. Either they’ve tired her out, or she’s trying to stay calm. If it’s the latter, that’s impressive. Most people would be panicking by now.
But that thought is quickly overridden by the growing anger at the realization that my men grabbed the wrong fucking woman.
