3. Alexander

Chapter 3

Alexander

I wake up in Natalya’s sweltering Paris shit box, stare at the ceiling, and wonder how I managed to fuck this up beyond saving.

She is going to hate me even more than she already does when she wakes up and I have to tell her the truth.

But it was that song, that fucking song.

I didn’t plan on any of yesterday—didn’t even think it was a possibility. Not with Little Nat, not with my best friend’s spoiled little sister, the bratty little asshole that always made my life miserable when we were growing up. Constantly complaining. Constantly tattling. She drove me absolutely fucking crazy .

No, it was the music that shattered me.

That longing, brutal sadness. It opened something inside of me that I’ve struggled for years to keep locked down and closed away.

I knew she was talented. I heard her play when we were younger, and even her brothers both agreed that she could become a concert pianist or something like that if their father weren’t such a controlling prick.

But unfortunately for her, Natalya was only ever destined for marriage.

When I heard about her arrangement to Valentin Zeitsev, I figured she would’ve been ecstatic. I mean, she was always going to end up with a Bratva husband, but the fucking pakhan himself? That was a coup for her and her father.

Except then she ran.

It made no sense. Valentin was going to give her money, comfort, and a strange kind of power, and her children were going to be the heirs to the Bratva. She would’ve been important, at the center of the world, or at least at the center of the only world she’s ever known.

It was everything she should’ve wanted.

And she still ran.

I don’t understand it, and I’ve been trying to work it out for the past year.

Now I’m in her bed, I’ve heard her music, I’ve tasted her lips, and I still don’t know her, not really.

But I caught a glimpse of a complicated woman I didn’t know was hiding inside of her, or at least I never wanted to admit might be lingering beneath the glassy, boring surface.

I never wanted to look at Natalya too closely.

Here’s the thing: I don’t do deep emotional reactions to fucking works of art.

But it’s the music that pulled me in here, and it’s still haunting me, even sitting awake in her little Parisian bed while birds chirp outside the window, even knowing I’m going to break her heart, even knowing that I’m a complete and utter bastard.

I always knew Nat was beautiful—but a woman that can make something as exquisite as those songs is more than just physically attractive.

The girl’s divine.

Even asleep, her breath coming slow to her chest, her mouth hanging slightly open, she looks like a fucking angel. And I can still hear her playing in my head.

I can still see her body, topless, sweating, slightly hunched over the keys

I can feel her sliding down my cock, shaking, moaning, begging for more.

Like I imagined a thousand times over the years, but so much better.

We put aside our history for one perfect day, and now I can’t run away from the truth any longer.

I get out of bed, hating myself, and get dressed. In her little kitchen, I leave her a note: Gone to get coffee. Don’t run away. A.

She’s awake when I get back. Her hair’s damp from a shower and she’s in clean clothes. Jeans, an old t-shirt, and a little bit of makeup. Suddenly, she’s the Natalya I remember from when we were growing up.

The girl that was always in the way, always too beautiful, always a temptation and a distraction.

But if I ever let myself give in and try to cross that line?—

Well, I wasn’t stupid enough to try.

At least until last night.

“I guess we should talk,” she says, accepting the cup I hand over. She sips and looks surprised. “Flat white. How’d you know?”

I don’t bother telling her that I’ve known her coffee order for a literal decade now, ever since she started drinking the stuff back in high school. Instead, I gesture at the door. “It’s nice out. Let’s go for a walk.”

“I’m surprised you were even able to order this stuff,” she says as we head out of her apartment building. “That barista hates it when I speak English. Sometimes he pretends like he doesn’t understand, just to be a prick.”

“I know a little French,” I admit, and when she gives me a skeptical look, I just laugh. “We have business connections overseas and there are the French Canadians. It’s good to know more than one language.”

“Right, I forgot for a second that you’re the most perfect Bratva soldier.” She says it bitterly and takes a long drink.

I lapse into silence as we walk together. The streets are relatively empty in this part of town, but it’s still Paris. It’s still old and beautiful. I take in the city as we stroll, not mentioning the night before even though it’s stuck between us like melted asphalt, and try to put off the inevitable just a little bit longer.

But that’s not fair, not to her at least.

We reach a small park. It’s mostly empty save for some people out walking for exercise. I lean up against a low stone wall and look out at the street. She joins me, but leaves a few inches between us.

“I’m sorry, Nat,” I tell her, not looking over.

“What are you sorry for?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Last night? Because you don’t have to apologize. I knew what I was doing.”

“No, I’m not sorry about that.” I take a deep breath. Time to dive in. “I’m sorry about what happened to Stepan.”

She jolts sideways and stares at me. Her eyes go wide and she’s gripping her coffee cup hard enough to dent the paper. “What happened to him?” she asks.

Oh fuck. She doesn’t know.

But of course she doesn’t know—nobody from the Bratva’s talking to her right now. Her fucking sicko father hasn’t told her shit, and her brother Lev’s too wrecked with grief to take the initiative.

Which leaves this awful job to me.

“He’s dead.”

No reaction. Not at first. Her face is pale and her eyes are wide, and every inch of her screams out stress and utter sadness. And then she crumples down to the ground, pulling her knees up and hugging herself with her back against the wall, and when I try to touch her she swats my hand away.

She cries for a little while. I let her get it out, feeling crushed and helpless. I mourned for my dead best friend already, and it isn’t fair that she didn’t get a chance until now.

None of this is fair. None of it is right. But it’s happening, and I’m going to be strong for her.

An old man wanders past and frowns at Natalya. I stare him down and practically dare him to say something. The old fuck speeds up.

Natalya doesn’t deserve this. She’s been punished enough for running out on her arranged marriage to Valentin Zeitsev. Keeping Stepan’s death from her for this long was just cruel.

“What happened?” she says finally, getting herself together and wiping her face. She pushes back to her feet, looking small and frail. I want to hold her, but can’t cross that line again.

Not ever again.

“You don’t want to hear the details.”

“Fuck you, Alex,” she snaps, glaring hard at me. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You knew this whole time. You came here, and you knew my brother was dead, and instead—“ She stops herself, and I don’t deny it. Because she’s right.

I came here knowing I’d have to have this conversation, and I fucked her last night instead.

Like I said, I’m a piece of shit and a real bastard.

So much for the perfect Bratva soldier.

“He was shot,” I tell her finally, even though I know it won’t help make her feel better. “Killed doing his job. It happened a few months ago.”

She kicks herself off the wall. Her coffee slams to the ground and the lid breaks off, spilling all over the sidewalk. The expression on her face is pure, horrified betrayal.

“A few months ago?” she says, her tone trembling with rage.

“Someone should’ve told you sooner.”

“No fucking kidding,” she says, getting in my face. Little firebrand Natalya. People are staring, and a part of me is worried someone might call the police. But I’m not about to tell her to calm down, not when this reaction is entirely justified.

“I had assumed your father or Lev got in touch, but when I was instructed to come here and bring you home, your father also mentioned that I should break the news.” My hands curl into fists and I hold back on my anger. This is her moment to feel, not mine. “I agree that this is fucked.”

She hates me. It’s all over her face. That’s a look I’ve become intimately familiar with. Nat has always despised me, and I can’t even blame her.

I never treated her right, because the second I did—I’d ruin my fucking life.

“So you came here on my father’s orders to tell me that my older brother was murdered and oh yeah you have to bring me back home. Is that about it?”

“Almost everything, yes.”

“This is fucked up, even for the god damn Bratva,” she snarls at me and kicks her coffee cup. She leans her hands against the wall, breathing hard. “God, I’m so mad. This is so fucking fucked.” She slams her fist down and lets out a string of curses as she cradles it against her chest.

And like that, most of her fight drains away.

She leans back, head hanging. Tears roll down her face, but she’s not sobbing out of control anymore.

“I can’t make excuses. But I can tell you that Stepan didn’t suffer.“

“Like that makes it any better.”

“And he was buried with honor.” I know that doesn’t matter to her, but it meant something to me at the time.

She lets out an ugly laugh. “I bet the funeral was nice. I bet it really helped you gain some closure, right? Except I wasn’t there and nobody even bothered to tell me about it.”

We stop talking. The sound of the city creeps in. Cars in the street, birds in the nearby park trees. A laugh erupts from half a block away as a couple of young women stagger together, arm-in-arm.

I don’t tell her that she’s right. I don’t explain to her how horrible I find this whole situation, how much I hated her father when he dropped this nightmare into my lap, and how painful this is for me, too. Watching Nat break down is almost like losing Stepan all over again, and that nearly killed me.

Stepan was everything. He was my best friend, my confidante, the only person in the world that knew and understood me, and without him I’d be a little nobody right now living a normal, boring life.

I am what I am today because of him and his family.

I owe them absolutely everything.

So even if I don’t agree with how her father handled everything—I follow orders anyway.

“What if I refuse to go home?” Nat says suddenly, looking up at me. Tear-streaked, defiant, and stunningly beautiful.

God, this girl. Divine doesn’t do her justice.

“That’s not an option.”

“You’re going to kidnap me?”

“Nat—“

“No, seriously, what are you going to do? Throw me over your shoulder and drag me onto a plane?”

“Yes, if that’s what it takes. I’ll drug you, bundle you into a car, and drive you to a private airport, where very highly paid pilots who are used to working for your father will keep their mouths shut.”

Her jaw sets, and she knows I’m not lying. She knows damn well that when I’m given a task, I see it through.

“You really do love following orders,” she sneers.

I don’t let her see how much that bothers me.

“Neither of us has a choice here.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“No, you’re supposed to understand that we’re both trapped by forces bigger than either of us. I’m sorry about Stepan. I really fucking am. You know how much I loved your brother.”

She softens, but only slightly. “I know you did.”

“I find it totally fucked that you weren’t told until right now, and if you want to hate me for it, that’s your right. I won’t blame you. But I was sent here to bring you home, and I’m going to bring you home, no matter what.”

Another long silence.

As bad as this is, I know it’s only going to get worse.

Because I haven’t told her everything yet.

And this last part?

It’s beyond fucked in light of what we did last night.

She pulls at the hem of her shirt and chews at her lip, clearly going over her options, but there are no other options. If she runs, I’ll catch her. If she fights, I’ll win. I don’t like it, but this is who I am.

The job gets done, no matter how what.

But I’m not a robot. I don’t have to love what I do, and I don’t have to always agree with all the decisions my superiors make.

I just have to get it done.

“I wish you just told me this from the start,” she says finally. The tears are mostly gone, and she sounds tired as she looks at me. “Instead of fucking me last night. You gave me a little hope, you know?”

“What do you mean, hope?”

“It’s stupid, but I thought maybe you came here for me.”

I feel like I was just hit by a truck. My muscles tense, and a deep, horrifying sadness cycles up through my stomach.

She has no clue—no idea—what hearing that means to me.

And how meaningless it really is.

“There’s more,” I manage to say, my voice impressively steady despite the storm raging inside of me.

“It gets worse?” She doesn’t even seem surprised. “No, obviously it gets worse. Just tell me. Does Dad have some terrible plans for me when I get back? He does, doesn’t he? There’s no other reason why he’d want me home all of a sudden.”

Her eyes are dead and emotionless. The beautiful, lonely girl I saw playing the piano yesterday, the passionate woman I slept with last night, is completely gone.

Now there’s only Natalya, or the shell of her left.

Bitterness washes over me.

There’s a reason I’ve kept my distance, and I have to shove all these feelings down deep inside again or else I’m going to ruin myself.

I don’t get moved by pieces of art or crying girls.

That’s not who I am.

I stand up straighter and bury any emotion I have left. I just have to remember why I’ve always disliked Natalya over the years and hold on to that.

She’s spoiled. She’s bratty. She’s selfish, rude, and stubborn.

“You’re engaged to marry Adriano Marino. The wedding is in three weeks.”