Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

"Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit."

― Moliere

Alexsei

I slammed another punch into his face, my frustration driving each hit, desperate to expel this fucking overwhelming obsession from my system. Just as he swung back, those deep, enigmatic emerald eyes flashed in my mind, throwing me off balance and making me dodge his punch, stumbling backward.

I stayed on the ground for a moment, cursing under my breath.

"What's got you all riled up today?" Volk laughed, reaching out to haul me up. "I've never had so many chances to bash your face in. "

"Shut up," I growled, spitting out the blood that had filled my mouth and dribbled down my chin.

Volk handed me a bottle of water, plopping down on the bench with a shit-eating grin. "What's eating at you?"

I yanked off my T-shirt to wipe the sweat and blood from my face, rolling my shoulders and neck to ease the tension. "Caia Mankiev happened," I muttered.

"Mankiev's daughter?" he chuckled, taking a long swig from the bottle. "So, you finally figured out she's not gonna fuck you?"

I checked if he hadn't broken my nose. "Worse."

After our photo session yesterday, I took her to an Italian restaurant. She dug into a bowl of gnocchi mushroom soup, swearing it was the perfect remedy to warm her up. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and a few snowflakes had melted in her chestnut hair.

She started talking about her favorite ice cream flavor—pistachio, which I find fucking gross. When I made a face at her choice, she looked so offended that I blurted out I loved it too, surprising us both.

Yep. I must've lost my fucking mind.

Later, I dropped her off at home. She mentioned having to work the night shift because of a flu outbreak among her colleagues. I gave her a peck on the cheek and drove off, her scent lingering in my car, and her eyes stuck in my head.

"Let me guess," Volk paused, pretending to think. "She won't do anal?"

I threw the bottle I was holding, and he dodged it with a laugh.

"What? I don't see what could be worse," Volk shrugged. "I mean wanting to fuck Mankiev's daughter is already bad enough. I can't believe she has his DNA in her blood. Poor girl, she?— "

"She's nothing like her fucking useless father," I snapped.

He fell silent, a slow smirk creeping onto his ugly face.

Damn it, I should've hit him harder.

His stare lingered, eyes narrowing like he was trying to read my mind. I slung my shirt over my shoulder and raised my hands. "What?"

Volk eyed me again, taking another deliberate sip of water, clearly enjoying whatever the hell he thought he was seeing. He shook his head slowly. "Careful, Alexsei."

Annoyance flared, and I headed for the door. "Fuck you, Mikha?l."

He laughed, the sound grating on my nerves, knowing damn well I only used his real name when I was pissed beyond reason. Fucking asshole.

I needed a drink, a cigarette, and maybe a punching bag, and I needed them fucking now. My head was spinning with thoughts I didn't want, couldn't shake, and it pissed me off more than it should've.

I stormed through the empty, silent corridors toward my room, every step feeling like a goddamn thunderclap in the quiet. But even as I tried to focus on the burn in my muscles, my mind kept circling back to her. To Caia . Her stupid, infuriating smile kept flashing in my head like she was some uninvited guest in my own thoughts. I could practically see it—her lips curving just enough to make me lose my damn mind, like she knew she had that effect and loved every second of it.

Then there was that little frown, the way her brows knitted when she was snapping photos of me, acting like she wasn't secretly enjoying every second of it. And, fuck, the look in her eyes when she checked those photos—like she had caught something she wasn't supposed to. Like I'd bared something raw and real without even knowing it.

What the hell was her problem? Why couldn't she just be normal ? Like the girls I was used to—boring, plain, all smooth legs, glossy lips, and a mind as empty as the bed they left behind. But no , Caia had to be fucking different. She had to have a brain that worked overtime, a sharp mouth I couldn't shut, and a way of looking at me like she saw through all my bullshit.

It wasn't enough for her to just be another pretty face I could fuck and forget. She had to crawl under my skin, make me want her in ways that had nothing to do with the curves of her body—and everything to do with the way she fucked with my head.

I clenched my fists as I reached my bedroom door. Her face was still there, dancing around in my brain like a fucking ghost that wouldn't leave. My pulse quickened, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

Why did I let her get to me? She's nothing —just another girl, right?

Right?

I slammed the door shut behind me, the echo loud and final.

I tossed my shirt onto the bed and headed straight for the shower, desperate to let the hot water scald away the frustration clinging to me. The steam started to rise as I cranked the tap, waiting for the heat to kick in. I was about to peel off the rest of my clothes when my phone buzzed from the nightstand.

I snatched it up, and there it was—Caia's name glowing on the screen. I could almost see her little devil self-popping out of the phone screen, small, red and seductive, her hair floating around her like some dark halo, beckoning me closer with one of those teasing fingers. Come on, Romaniev... just a little closer...

Caia:

Busy tonight?

I finished my assignment and wanted your feedback.

But, if you're busy it's okay!

A grin spread on my face unconsciously.

My little witch wants to see me again.

Me:

What time?

Caia:

Is 8 okay?

Me:

Perfect. I'll cook you dinner.

Caia:

No, don't bother.

Really, Romaniev!

Me:

It wasn't a question. I'll pick you up at 8.

Caia:

I tossed my phone onto the bed with a thud, yanking off the rest of my clothes before stepping into the shower. The hot water hit me, and for a second, the warmth eased the knots in my shoulders. I leaned back, letting it wash over my face, hoping it'd drown out all the shit swirling in my head.

Then, bam—a sharp sting hit me. I grabbed my nose, wincing. Damn, that bastard almost broke it.

"How much did he steal?" Vlad asked.

I raised my gun just enough to check it was loaded, then tucked it back under my jacket, out of sight.

"20 grand," Volk replied, handing me a cigarette. I took it without a word, lit up, and inhaled deeply.

As I walked through the place, I couldn't help but notice how the light poured in through broken windows, cobwebs draped over every corner like nobody had given a damn about this dump for years. The air was thick with neglect, the kind that clung to your skin, with random flutters of birds hiding somewhere in the dark. It was the kind of place you leave to rot, forgotten, because no one cared enough to tear it down.

I took another drag and blew out the smoke slowly. "So, why the hell are we here? "

Vlad crouched, inspecting something on the floor. "Trying to figure out where that bastard's hiding."

By "that bastard," he meant Viktor. Used to be tight with Igor and Vlad, until he decided to disappear with 20k of our money. Seems like lately everyone thought they could make a clean break from the Silas.

Igor and Vlad met in prison years ago, though neither ever bothered to share what landed them there. Whatever it was, it was enough to spark a friendship and lay the foundation for what the Silas became—a brotherhood of men looking for something more than their sorry lives had offered: power, money, women, purpose.

Igor used to say the name "Silas" came from some Roman god of the woods. It was supposed to mean something about being rooted or grounded. His old man was a carpenter, and they lived in a small town up in northern St. Petersburg. Maybe that's why he built his manor out in the middle of nowhere, deep in the forest, like he had to be surrounded by trees to feel alive.

But honestly, none of that shit mattered now. Viktor stole from us, and we weren't the type to let shit like that slide.

"Where's the wife?" Volk jumped in with the question before I could even open my mouth.

Vlad shook his head, looking grim. "In a coma."

I frowned, not sure I wanted to hear the rest. "How'd that happen?"

"He ran her over with his car."

Charming. "When was the last time you saw him?"

There was no way he'd slipped out of the country that easily—not with us keeping tabs. He was probably holed up somewhere, most likely in Moscow.

"A month ago," Vlad said, pulling out his phone and showing us a picture of Viktor and his wife, all smiles and loving glances. They looked like the perfect couple, but it was all for show. Behind those grins, they probably couldn't stand each other and slept with knives under their pillows.

I walked further into the dimly lit space, trying to ignore the odd mix of metallic and detergent smells that lingered in the air.

"What's that smell?" I started to ask when, without any warning, an explosion ripped through the warehouse. The blast hit us hard, slamming us to the ground.

Dust and debris filled the air, making it hard to see. The explosion's roar left my ears ringing, and I grimaced, feeling something wet and sticky on my hands—blood.

The force of the blast tossed us around, the air thick with ash and grime. I scrambled to find Vlad and Volk through the wreckage, my body stinging from glass shards scattered from broken windows.

A buzzing sound was assaulting my senses, making it tough to focus. I shut my eyes tight, cursing Viktor under my breath. The bastard had trapped us.

The sound of collapsing walls jolted me upright, my breath catching in my throat. My lungs screamed for air as Vlad screamed, ?Outside, NOW!"

Stumbling through the wreckage, I barreled through the open doorway, adrenaline roaring through me like a freight train on steroids. Outside, the world had devolved into a chaotic swirl of snow and confusion.

I crashed into the snow, collapsing with a bone-jarring thud. My body shook uncontrollably as I struggled for breath, my knees betraying me in the wake of the shock. I clawed at the ground, spitting out a foul mix of blood and grime. The metallic tang of iron lingered in my mouth, and rage surged through my chest, choking me with its intensity.

After what felt like an eternity, I managed to catch my breath, sprawling on my back as the snowflakes drifted lazily across my face. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to savor the cold, clean air despite the searing pain radiating through my body.

Volk's voice cut through the ringing in my ears. "I'm gonna kill him."

I croaked, voice hoarse from the coughing fit, "How the hell did he know we were coming?"

Vlad, still panting heavily, muttered darkly, "We've hit that place before. He knew we'd come looking. He's not stupid."

I pushed myself up, wincing at the warm trickle of blood oozing from the glass shards embedded in my hands. Grimacing, I yanked out the shards one by one, frustration twisting my features. "Looks like your building's toast now."

All that remained was a goddamn disaster—rubble scattered everywhere. The warehouse, once a symbol of strength, now lay in ruins, reduced to a pile of fucking debris and wreckage.

Vlad gritted his teeth. "We're heading to Saint Petersburg. Igor's sealing a deal with his weapons dealer today. We'll rendezvous there; we're taking the jet."

Volk nodded. "And Viktor?"

Vlad's eyes turned cold as steel. "Viktor's my business. I'll take care of him personally."

Igor hadn't breathed a word about this meeting, and I'd had already my own plans set.

I forced myself up from the fucking disgusting snow, pain flaring through my body. "Can't join you. Got unfinished business in the city."

I knew I should be dealing with more pressing matters than Mankiev's daughter, but a part of me wanted to see her again.

Volk's hand landed on my shoulder. "This ain't the time for chasing after pussy, Alexsei."

Vlad's laugh was dark, interrupted by a harsh cough. "Give him a break. I might just tag along myself."

"You're late," she snapped, her voice sharp as she slid into the car.

I held the door open, eyes glued to how her red dress rode up, giving me a hell of a peek at her thigh. The garter and that tiny bow were practically mocking my control. My pulse was hammering, and a burning heat spread through me, making it almost impossible to think straight.

Fuck me.

I closed the door with a practiced flick and sank into my seat. The heat in my veins was more intense than the damn engine's roar.

Clearing my throat, I ruffled my hair, feeling the damp strands cling to my fingers as I started the engine. "Got tied up with some business," I muttered, feeling her eyes burn through me.

She leaned closer, her fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from my forehead with a touch that was both indifferent and deeply intimate. "Your hair's still wet. You'll catch a cold. If you were so busy, you should?—"

I grabbed her hand and pressed a rough, lingering kiss on her knuckles. Her skin was blazing against my lips, sending a surge of heat straight to my groin. I kept my eyes glued to the road, knowing if I looked at her, I'd be tempted to pull over and do something that'd screw up my chances of winning.

"Don't worry about it," I murmured, my voice low. "Ready?"

She gave a soft hum, barely more than a breath. The little devil on her shoulder lounged back, with feline eyes and a mischievous glint that mirrored the intrigue in her gaze.

"I was thinking of cooking up shrimp pasta with a creamy white sauce tonight," I said, steering the car through the snow-covered streets toward my place. I'd had the cleaning lady come by earlier to ensure everything was spotless.

"With a side of arsenic?" she teased, her hands elegantly clasped in her lap.

I shot her a smirk. "Arsenic? That's child's play. I prefer my poison to be a little more... seductive."

She remained silent, but a flicker of mischief danced in her eyes before it vanished.

I stole a glance at her, taking in the way her long legs were encased in black leather boots and how her fur coat hung open just enough to tease. Her red dress clung to her curves, stopping just above her knee, sleek and shiny like a damn spotlight. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, with a few rebellious strands framing her face. The minimal makeup she wore only made her thick, black lashes and those mesmerizing emerald eyes stand out more. They looked relaxed, but there was a glint in them that told me she was anything but.

When I spotted her a few weeks ago in the casino, she was a glaring anomaly in the murky sea of gamblers. Her tight dress, with its low back, clung to her smooth, sparkly skin like a sinister whisper of temptation. Her fiery, angry eyes cut through the dim light, making her stand out in a way that was both alluring and infuriating.

It pissed me off. She was way too fucking radiant for this place—too mesmerizing to be flaunted like this. She should've been locked away in a tower, hidden from everyone but me. The thought of anyone else catching a glimpse of her, seeing her in all her dangerous beauty, made my blood boil.

She usually had that smart-ass mouth of hers spitting out the most obnoxious shit, but tonight, she was disturbingly quiet, and I couldn't help but wonder why. She didn't say a word as we made our way from the car to the elevator, even when she stumbled slightly. Instinctively, I reached out, my hands gripping her hips to steady her.

"You okay?"

She held her breath for a moment, her only answer a barely perceptible nod.

I stayed there a second longer, inhaling her intoxicating scent.

It's too fucking addicting.

The elevator door slid open. I stepped back, letting my hands drop, trembling from the lingering contact with her body, as an elderly woman with a tiny poodle stepped out and gave us a polite "Good night."

When the elevator doors closed, we were alone in the tight space. She stared at her shoes, gripping her bag like a lifeline, avoiding my eyes.

"Alexsei, I—" she started, but the elevator's soft ping interrupted her. She stopped dead in her tracks, shaking her head like she was trying to shake off whatever was going on in her head.

It was the first time my name had slipped out of her mouth, and a deep, primal satisfaction roared through me. I could feel it pounding in my chest, like I'd just scored some twisted, personal trophy for her finally acknowledging my pathetic existence.

Without another word, she swiftly exited the lift, striding briskly towards my door .

Following closely behind, I hastened to open the door for her, reaching out to take her bag and coat.

"Feel free to make yourself comfortable," I said, leading the way to the couch and motioning for her to sit. "I've got a vinyl player if you're up for some music, the TV's right there, or my office has books and board games. I'll give you a shout when everything's set."

She followed me, now without her heels, still managing to reach up to my chest, despite being quite tall herself. It crossed my mind that I could easily lift her with one arm, but I quickly banished those thoughts, not wanting to go down that path.

"Can I..." she started, her cheeks tinted red. "Can I watch you cook?"

"Sure, come on," I replied, leading the way to the kitchen. "Wine?"

She shook her head. "Just water, thank you."

As I started to clean my hands, a sudden, searing twinge of pain shot through me, making me flinch without meaning to. She spotted my hands just as blood began to ooze from the cuts, staining my palms with a dark, spreading red.

She grabbed my hands, her eyes widening in shock. "Your hands… You need stitches!"

I tried to brush it off. "Nah, it's nothing."

"Stop being stubborn. Where's your bathroom? Let me clean these up."

"Caia, seriously, it's fine. Doesn't even hurt."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Oh really?" She dug her nails into the cuts, and a loud, unintentional growl slipped out of me.

"Caia–"

She turned off the faucet. Her emerald eyes darkened in impatience. "Where's your bathroom?"

Realizing her stubbornness matched my own, I gave in and led her to the bathroom, pointing out the cabinet with the first aid supplies. She guided me to sit on the edge of the bath with a firm yet surprisingly gentle hand. As she worked on my wounds, her fingertips grazed my skin, sending shivers through me. Her eyes lingered on my hand, tracing it with a gaze that felt almost physical. Her breath brushed against me.

The warm water washed away the blood, revealing deeper gashes than I'd thought—seems I wasn't just being dramatic.

When she carefully extracted two small pieces of glass, a sharp sting made me fucking wince. "What happened?" she asked.

"Work," I mumbled.

As she skillfully wrapped my palms, she assured me stitches wouldn't be necessary but said she'd need to check them in a few days to make sure there was no infection.

While she continued bandaging, I found myself fixated on her hands, watching the way she worked with precision and unexpected care.

For a second, a memory flashed in my mind. It hit out of nowhere. My mom, on one of her good days—before the drugs, before she disappeared into her own mess—would sit with me, brushing my hair or telling me some story about when she was a kid. Small moments that, back then, felt like gold. Rare and fleeting, but they stuck.

Sometimes I wonder if my mind just conjured up those moments, trying to paint a picture of happiness in the chaos of my fucked-up past.

I shoved that thought aside.

Caia finished up, giving my hands one last look. In that moment, when our eyes locked, everything else just faded. Our breaths mingled, faces so close I could've counted the little veins under her eyes—like she hadn't slept in days. It wasn't just her eyes though; the exhaustion was all over her, but somehow it made her even more fucking magnetic.

I couldn't look away.

We stayed like that for what felt like hours until her cheeks flushed bright red.

With a shy smile, she stood up, excusing herself to wash her hands.

I left the bathroom and headed back to the kitchen, trying like hell to focus on cooking. The clatter of utensils was the only thing keeping my mind from spiraling

You got a fucking game to win Alexsei, wake up!

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her heading to the vinyl player. The melancholic notes of Nina Simone's "Ne me quitte pas" filled the room. She moved gracefully, lighting a candle on the dining table, all the while seemingly engrossed in her own world, ignoring my presence.

I caught a glimpse of her in that red dress, and fuck, it hugged her curves perfectly. Her slender waist, those tempting hips, and that ass—hell, it was hard not to notice. Cursing under my breath, I swiftly turned away.

"I love this song," she remarked, settling herself on the kitchen counter beside me, casually crossing her legs—those damn stockings teasingly peeking out for a microsecond. "You have good taste."

"You doubted it?" I reached for a spoon, scooping a bit of sauce, and cooled it before offering it to her. "Give it a try."

Her lips parted as she tasted the sauce, closing her eyes briefly. "Perfect."

I grabbed two plates, serving up portions of perfectly al dente pappardelle pasta topped with my shrimp white sauce. "Come on. Dinner's ready."

As we settled in, the room was soaked in the flicker of candlelight. She sipped her water while I threw back a couple inches of whiskey, feeling the burn down my throat. The shadows from the candle danced over her face.

"So, about your assignment. What did you do?"

She set her glass down. "I did what I told you—snapped a photo of our hands, mine entwined with my grandmother's. It's a picture I'll hold close forever."

Curious to hear more, I leaned in. "What's your favorite memory with your babushka?"

She paused, her fork twirling absently on her plate. "When I was eight," she began, a hint of a smile playing on her lips, "my father grounded me because I accidentally broke his phone while trying to take a picture of my bedroom where a small butterfly had landed."

A chuckle escaped her as she continued, "I slipped on a piece of clothing and ended up face-first on the ground, breaking his phone." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "He said I was grounded for a week and couldn't have dessert the whole time." She took a bite of pasta. "But every night, after my father went to sleep, my babushka would sneak in some cookies from the afternoon, a slice of lemon cake, or a few blinis, then whisper goodnight to me."

Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, a gentle smile lingering on her lips.

"That was the thing about my babushka. She found a way to sneak love into every corner of my life."

I leaned back, taking a long swig from my glass, letting the alcohol scorch its way down my throat. She loves her babushka so much. Too much, really. That's the reason why she is hurting.

Love, in all its glory and agony, is the cruelest of all emotions. It can lift you up only to tear you apart, leaving you shattered and lifeless.

Her gaze drifted to the gentle flicker of the candle's flame. "She's the reason why I have such a love for desserts," she confessed softly.

"What's your favorite dessert?"

Her eyes met mine. "Berry Pavlova. What about you?"

"I don't like desserts."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Really? Why's that?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. They never really clicked with me."

"You're weird," she said, scrunching her nose and tapping her chin. "So, what's your thing, then?"

"I have a few interests," I murmured, my voice low and rough.

She leaned in, her eyes roaming over my face, lingering on my lips for just a moment. "Are you sure it's not something... sweet?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Sweet?"

She slowly dragged her tongue over her lips, the motion deliberate. "Yes, quite... sweet ."

I tilted my head, a smirk playing on my lips. "Are you sweet ?" I watched her, letting the question hang in the air.

One, two, three seconds ticked by.

She bit her lip. ?Why don't you find out?" she whispered.

I shook my head, downing the rest of my whiskey in one long gulp, slamming the glass down a bit too hard.

Fucking hell.