10. Chapter 10

10

Leonid

A few moments ago

I f I hold my breath any longer, I’ll be six feet under.

I stand at the door, my hand gripping the handle tighter than necessary.

Poshel na khuy! What the hell are you being such a wuss for? She’s your prisoner, for fuck’s sake. Quit screwing around and get in there!

I turn the lock on the outside of the door, and the heavy bolt slides back with a click.

But my feet freeze just outside the threshold of the door.

What the hell’s wrong with me? I’m here for her, to remind her who’s in charge.

I’ve spent the last hour planning exactly how to break this suka . The plan was simple: grab her, threaten her, make her play by my fucking rules.

But when I push the door open, every fucking thought evaporates.

Clara had turned off all the lights except for a dim lamp in the corner. Moonlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the king-sized bed in silver. And there she is.

Chyert.

My feet root to the wooden floor. The hellcat who took down three of my men, who’d rather die than show fear, lies curled around her son like a protective tigress. Her dark hair spills across white sheets, features soft in sleep. The moonlight catches her face, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

God, she’s fucking gorgeous.

This would be easier if she were trying to claw my eyes out. At least then I’d know what to do with the heat coursing through my veins.

I take a step forward, my gaze lowers, and my breath catches. She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt that has ridden up, exposing a tantalizing stretch of thigh that makes my mouth go dry and my cock throb with desire.

Get it together, you pathetic mudak .

I’m not here to fuck her, but my primal instincts tell me otherwise. She’s gorgeous, sleeping like an angel, unaware of the predator watching over her.

My cock clearly hasn’t gotten the memo about her being the enemy. Traitor’s been doing most of my thinking when it comes to this woman. First at that club, now here—

I drag a hand down my face, forcing my eyes away from those legs that go on for fucking days…

I’m the fucking Pakhan of the Kuznetsov Bratva , I remind myself again, not some dick-driven piece of shit who can’t control himself around a pretty face.

Even if that face belongs to the most infuriating, beautiful suka I’ve ever—

Ostanovis’. Stop.

I force myself to breathe, my muscles tensing as I try to pull myself out of whatever spell she’s casting.

Instead, I find myself counting her breaths.

The kid shifts in his sleep, and my eyes snap to him. Little fingers clutch her hand like it’s a lifeline. Something twists in my gut at the sight. Those curls… Der’mo , they’re just like my mother’s photos of me at that age.

“No…” Her whisper slices through my thoughts. “Jake, don’t…”

Her face contorts, body twitching beneath the sheets. Tears leak from beneath those long lashes, and fuck if that doesn’t do something strange to my chest.

“Baby, please…” Raw desperation rips through her voice. “Look at Mommy…”

My hand moves before my brain catches up. Stupid. But I can’t stop watching her face. The fierce little tigritsa who’d sooner shoot me than show weakness, now fighting shadows in her sleep.

This is perfect , the Pakhan in me whispers. Wake her now. Use the boy. Break her.

But my fingers hover over her tear-stained cheek. The mighty Clara reduced to pleading in her dreams. It feels… wrong. Like watching something I shouldn’t see. Something private.

“ELIJAH!”

Her scream jolts through me. The boy doesn’t stir—too used to his mother’s demons. More tears track down her face, and before I can stop myself—

“Shhhh.” The sound escapes like a betrayal. My thumb catches a tear. “Sleep, Clara. Everything’s okay.”

She settles under my touch, and blyat , her skin is soft. Warm. Her breathing evens out, but then those eyes flutter open—just a sliver of brown in the moonlight.

I yank my hand back like her skin burns. Which it fucking does. Burns straight through my flesh, into places I thought were long dead.

What the fuck am I doing?

Stalking toward the door, I try to shake off her warmth. Her scent. The way her body curves protectively around her son. The sight burns into my brain like a brand.

The door shuts. The walls seem to shrink as Dmitry strides down the corridor.

“Boss?” Dmitry steps aside, that knowing look in his eyes.

“Double the guard.” The words come out gravel-rough. “No one enters without my permission.”

“And the boy’s Pikachu?” He holds up a ratty yellow thing.

My fingers curl into fists. The toy’s dead eyes mock my weakness. “Leave it outside. What do I look like, a fucking babysitter?”

But as I stride down the hallway, that image burns behind my eyes. Clara fighting her nightmares. That familiar face on her boy. The way one tear felt against my thumb.

Sentimental piece of shit , I snarl at myself. Tomorrow, I’ll remember who I am. Tomorrow, I’ll make her talk.

Tonight… Tonight, I need a bottle of the good vodka. Maybe two.

The vodka burns like acid, but it’s not enough to erase her tears from my mind. Blyat.

I slam the crystal tumbler down on my desk, watching the liquid ripple. The massive screens covering my office walls paint everything in an eerie blue glow—satellite feeds, security cameras, stock tickers, crypto movements. Power at my fingertips.

But I can’t stop seeing her face.

The holographic display flickers as I swipe through files. There—Jake Caldwell. Every piece of intel I’ve gathered on the Caldwell family sits in my secure server. Know your enemy. Know their weaknesses.

“System, display file 2847-B.”

The crime scene photos materialize in the air before me. Blood soaking into forest dirt. Summer leaves scattered with red. And there she is—15-year-old Clara, covered in it, screaming as three officers try to pry her off her brother’s body. Her fingers leaving crimson streaks on Jake’s shirt.

My jaw clenches. That summer, I was halfway around the world cleaning up my father’s mess in Moscow. Some upstart thought he could take over our weapons pipeline while the old man was dying. Poor fuck learned the hard way why they called me The Raven.

I take another shot, memories of that bloody summer mixing with the image of Clara’s tears tonight. Everyone blamed The Raven for Jake’s death. Convenient. But I didn’t give the order. And I never kill children.

“Cross-reference location data, summer 2010.”

A ghost of a laugh escapes me. So that’s her game.

My fingers drum against the desk, an old tell I thought I’d killed years ago. She thinks The Raven killed her brother. That I killed her brother.

Fifteen years old, covered in his blood, and someone fed her my name.

The Raven’s reputation has served me well—kept rivals in check, territories secure. I never bothered clearing my name when shit went sideways. Let them fear the boogeyman.

But this…

I stand abruptly, the chair rolling back to hit the wall. Jake Caldwell’s death file hangs in the air, his sister’s screams somehow echoing in the pixels. Some mudak used my name, used The Raven, to destroy a little girl’s life.

And now she wants me dead.

My jaw clenches as I watch the footage loop. Fifteen-year-old Clara, screaming over her brother’s body. Today’s Clara, with murder in her eyes and poison in her pocket.

Both of them bleeding for a crime I didn’t commit.

Maybe it’s the vodka making me philosophical. Maybe it’s the memory of her tears on my thumb. Or maybe it’s because, for the first time in years, I actually give a fuck about clearing my name.

A strange twist of pain tugs at my chest, something foreign, almost unwelcome, as the young girl’s anguish claws at me. It’s like a punch I wasn’t ready for—sharp, deep, and settling uncomfortably under my ribs.

What the fuck is this? Guilt? Regret?

No… something worse. An ache that only gets worse with every scream that loops on screen, a hollow pain as if her suffering carved something out of me without permission.

Blyat . My fist tightens, but the feeling doesn’t leave.

A knock interrupts my thoughts. “Enter.”

Dmitry’s massive frame fills the doorway. His eyes catch on the floating images, but he knows better than to comment.

“Mitch is conscious.”

I lean back, studying the clear liquid in my glass. “And?”

“Not a word.”

“Make him talk.”

“ Da , boss.” He hesitates. Something’s eating at him. “What… what’s your plan for Elijah?”

The question hits like a bullet. My grip tightens on the glass. “What’s it to you?”

“The boy is innocent in all this.”

“You think I don’t know that?” The words come out like ice. “He’s leverage.”

Dmitry’s face hardens. “Children shouldn’t be leverage.”

I’m on my feet before I realize it. “Watch yourself.”

He shifts—unusual for the killer I know him to be. His eyes drift to another screen showing the feed from Clara’s room. Elijah clutches onto his mother.

“The boy…” Dmitry’s voice roughens. “He reminds me of Sasha.”

The name hangs heavy in the air. Dmitry’s nephew. Dead at six from leukemia.

“Your point?”

“Just… the way he holds that Pikachu. Sasha had the same one. Wouldn’t let it go, even in the hospital, when—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

I study my most loyal soldier, the man who’s killed without hesitation. Now undone by a stuffed fucking toy.

“The boy isn’t Sasha.” My voice comes out harder than intended. Because that kid’s face—those curls—hit too close to home.

“No.” Dmitry straightens. “But maybe that’s why she fights so hard. Like Katya did, trying to save Sasha.”

His dead sister. The unspoken weight of family—lost, broken, stolen—fills the room.

I grab the decanter. Pour two shots. The routine of it steadies my fucking hands. Dmitry downs his without flinching.

Good. Back to business.

I turn the security feeds off with a sharp gesture. Enough of this sentimental der’mo. “Get creative with Mitch. I want answers.”

The screens fade to black. Better. Cleaner.

“And Dmitry?” The vodka burns, but my voice comes out frozen. “Don’t let feelings cloud your judgment. They’re a liability we can’t afford.”

Like you haven’t spent the last hour staring at her tears, mudak?

“Boss—”

“Feelings get you killed.” My knuckles whiten around the glass. “Or worse—they make you wish you were.”

Dmitry’s jaw locks. His chair scrapes back.

I don’t watch him leave. Instead, I pull up the weapons shipment data from 2017. Work. Death. Power. This is what matters.

Not some dead kid’s sister.

Not some living kid’s tears.

The door shuts with a soft click.