Chapter 10

Chapter

Ten

"Until you step into the unknown, you don't know what you're made of."

― Roy T. Bennett

Alexsei

Strolling down the hallway, a thick silence hung in the air, only broken by the antiseptic smell of sanitizer, failing miserably to mask the odor of death.

As I moved, the sound of my steps echoed, giving the whole place a heavy feeling.

Finding Room 305 in this freaking maze was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

As I navigated the corridors, the open doors of the residents' rooms offered glimpses into their lives.

Some were peacefully tucked under blankets, keeping warm not just from the nighttime chill but also from the relentless march of time. Others were absorbed in solitary activities, finding solace in books, the gentle glow of the TV, or lost in their own thoughts, gazing into the distance. Even though they were all doing different things, there was this one thing that connected them all: the certainty that they were all heading towards the unknown, towards death .

I reached door 305 and slowly closed it behind me after stepping inside. The room remained unchanged—its walls still bore the same faded yellowish hue, devoid of any vibrancy, and haunted by the ghosts of past memories.

I took a seat in the lone chair beside his bed.

I always tell people that both my parents have died, but it's just a fucking lie.

The truth is that the bastard who happens to be my father is still hanging on but just barely.

Funny coincidence, Caia works at the same retirement home where I dumped my father off six years ago.

When my mom died, it seemed like some strange turn of events that my dad suddenly fell ill with throat cancer and landed in the hospital.

He was already well into his late 50s by then.

As the cancer progressed, I made the choice to remove him from my life entirely.

Stage four throat cancer usually doesn't allow for much time, but somehow the bastard's still hanging on, six years later.

Now, he's voiceless, reliant on a breathing machine, and rarely coherent.

Yet, in those fleeting moments of awareness, nurses say he repeatedly calls out my name.

But truth be told, I harbor no feelings for him, just a detached acknowledgment of his useless presence, a haunting reminder of my fucked-up past.

Only Volk and Igor know about him being my old man.

When I joined the Silas, I swapped Alexsei Rovanski for Alexsei Romaniev, trying to ditch my past.

I wanted absolutely nothing to do with that fucking bastard anymore.

But damn it, there's this twisted part of me that couldn't resist stopping by when I was back in town, just to check on him, see if he was still defying death like a stubborn son of a bitch.

Guess even death itself can't be bothered with that old bastard.

I scrutinized him with disgust—the sickly green shade of his skin, the baldness that highlighted his frailty, the faint remnants of eyebrows above lifeless eyes, and those dark, pulsating veins etched like scars across his neck.

His rasping breaths, amplified by the machine, echoed in the room.

He'd visibly lost weight since my last visit, looking frail, as delicate as a leaf. He seemed so fragile that I was almost certain he'd break like glass if I touched him.

I rose and ambled toward the window, fixating on the snowflakes descending from the sky to the ground below.

The darkness enveloped everything, and the snow was merely illuminated by the stark streetlights.

This view felt more like a nightmare than a dream, matching the chaos I was feeling inside.

Back when I was a kid, the snow was pure excitement, especially when it meant playing with my school buddies.

We'd create this whole war scene, imagining ourselves as soldiers in the Red Army fighting off the Nazis. Our snowballs became missiles and bombs in our make-believe battles.

And naturally, I was always the "Commander," orchestrating our play and watching as my "troops" triumphed over the enemy.

But there was this one day where I was about ten, having a blast playing outside with my neighbors. I played with them for hours and time slipped away, when suddenly, I caught sight of my father heading our way from a distance.

His face contorted in anger, his nose flushed red, and he was stumbling towards us, unmistakably drunk.

Without a second thought, I urgently told my friends to hide, not wanting them to bear the result of his anger.

When he finally got close, he struck me so hard that I tumbled to the ground, the snow cushioning the impact.

"I've been waiting for you for hours, you piece of shit!" He shouted.

I slowly rose, my hand on my stinging cheek. "I'm sorry, Papa. I was playing with-"

"You think you can play around in the snow all fucking day?" He growled, scooping up some snow. "There, you little bastard." He grabbed my throat and shoved the snow into my face. He kept reaching for more, holding me in place, and forcefully shoved it into my face and mouth.

I scrambled, desperate to break free from his grip. The bitter cold seeped through my clothes, freezing my skin.

With a surge of adrenaline, I managed to wrench myself away, stumbling backward and coughing violently as I tried to expel the snow from my mouth and throat. I scanned the surroundings for any sign of help, but the snow-covered streets seemed deserted.

My heart pounded, my breaths ragged as I glared at him, trying to gauge his next move .

He advanced, a sinister grin carving its way across his face. "You think you're strong, huh?"

I had to think fast.

My fingers fumbled in the snow, seeking anything I could use as a defense. My eyes darted around, landing on a fallen branch partially buried in the snow.

Without hesitation, I lunged for it, clutching it tightly, ready to strike if needed.

He paused. "Oh, you wanna hit me now, you fucking scumbag?"

I didn't respond.

Instead, I held the branch in a defensive stance, my knuckles turning white as I gripped it with all my strength.

A sudden noise from a distance broke the tension.

It was faint, but it sounded like voices approaching.

Maybe they're coming to help me!

But then, abruptly, not giving me the chance to even think, my father launched himself at me, unleashing a brutal punch that sent my vision spiraling into blurriness.

Darkness crept in at the edges as I crumpled, consciousness slipping away.

I woke up face down in the snow moments after.

My pants were soaked, not just from the melted snow but also, well, you can imagine.

It was night by that time, and it was pretty scary being out there alone and freezing.

All I could see was snow, stretching endlessly.

No signs of life, no one in sight.

It felt like I was stuck in some frozen nightmare.

Shivering uncontrollably, not just from the cold but from feeling completely lost and scared, I made my way back home.

Since then, snow has been nothing but a bitter reminder of the day my pathetic father lashed out, leaving me so frightened that I lost control and fucking peed myself.

So, yeah, I fucking hate snow.

"How's Mankiev's daughter? Did you fu-" Volk's words trailed off as I shot him a sharp, warning glance.

He chuckled, then took a sip of his drink, shaking his head slightly, his eyes darting around the restaurant.

"How's the count looking? How many kilos have we moved?" I shifted the conversation, trying not to go back to picturing Caia naked for the tenth time tonight—her long hair, her moans—things that hadn't even happened yet but kept haunting my mind.

All I could think of was her and only her.

How fucking pathetic, Alexsei.

"30 kilos this week." He pours me a shot of vodka, ?Mankev's shit's hitting the mark. That bastard was right."

I nodded, lost in thoughts.

I imagined she'd have this voice, like a damn siren, or worse, like some enchanting fairy leading me straight to my downfall.

I hadn't planned on playing stalker with the girl, but once I set the game in motion, I sure as hell was going to see it through. So, I swung by her uni, waited outside, hoping to have a little chat.

She sensed my presence; I saw it.

Quick on her feet, she dashes to catch her bus, then zips into stores, constantly checking over her shoulder.

Damn, I love this game.

Sure, she was surprised when she saw me, but there was something else in her eyes—something that looked like... fire.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think she'd actually let me into her place.

When I saw her in that tiny, freezing, empty excuse for an apartment, I nearly lost it. I wanted to scoop her up and offer her one of my condos.

Seriously, she's way too fucking gorgeous for this shit hole. If it got any more depressing, it'd be a goddamn tomb. How she hasn't started charging rent to the probably living-with-her rats is beyond me.

As I smoked and listened to her talk, I realized her voice was so soothing I could easily listen to it for hours. Who knew? Even in my monstrous world, I still had a few scraps of decency left, so I decided to share a bit of my own story with her.

Something clicked between us in that moment. I felt this strong pull toward her vulnerability—like she was a puzzle with missing pieces, and I was itching to put her back together. She was this captivating mess, and I wanted to understand every bit of it.

And yeah, I won't lie, I was dying to fuck her and see those fiery emerald eyes go soft, to eat her pussy like a candy.

Yep. Even monsters have their cravings.

"When are you heading to New York?"

I knocked back a shot of vodka, feeling the burn as it slid down my throat. "In two weeks."

"Why not now?"

I grinned. "Got something I need to sort out first."

He scoffed. "She won't fuck you, you know? She's not that naive."

I remained silent, opting instead to retrieve my phone from my pocket and scroll through to find Angelo Lazzio's number, a friend of mine based in NYC.

As the waitress eventually made her way over with our meals—steaks cooked to perfection, fries generously drizzled with mushroom sauce—she not only delivered our food but also discreetly slipped a folded piece of paper into my hand.

With a graceful sway of her hips, she walked away.

"But seems like this one's willing to," Volk remarked with a mouthful of fries.

I glanced at the paper and unfolded it.

It had a phone number with a message above:

I want you two ;)

I casually slipped it into my pocket.

Volk's disbelief that Caia would ever end up in my bed just made me more determined.

"Why wouldn't she?"

"Because she'll make you fall in love with her and you'll never let her go," he shrugged.

I scoffed. "Fall in love? I just wanna see her tits, that's all."

Love, in my book, is just a glorified fairy tale shoved down our throats by today's movies. It promises happiness but delivers a whole lot of pain and tragedy instead.

Just look at Igor—deeply in love with his wife, only for fate to play a cruel joke and snatch her and their baby away. Now he's stuck playing amateur ghost hunter, trying to fix what's beyond repair. Every corner of his home is a reminder of his epic fail of a love story.

Volk chewed on his steak and said, ‘Don't fuck her.'

I didn't even look up, just shrugged. "Let's keep my personal life out of your steak dinner conversation."

"Seems like there's not much else worth discussing, anyway," he snorted.

I shot him a cold look and motioned to my nearly empty vodka glass, silently demanding another round.

As I downed the fresh drink, a grim determination settled over me.

Deep down, I knew one thing for sure—I was going to prove him wrong, and it would be fucking glorious.