Chapter 25

Chapter

Twenty-Five

"What's the good of living if you don't try a few things?"

― Charles M. Schulz

Alexsei

"So, how's married life treating you? Mankiev's daughter hasn't tried to kill you yet?"

I grumbled a curse and hefted the boxes of cocaine into the truck. This shit was heavy as hell. Mankiev had really screwed me over—first with his crap that Igor ordered us to clear out of the city, and now with his damn gorgeous daughter, who had a way of sticking in my head.

I wiped the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand and tossed the last box into the truck before slamming the doors shut and giving them a solid tap to signal Liev to take off. Cracking my neck from side to side, I groaned, feeling the faint throb in my back.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"Shut up, Mikhail."

He chuckled, taking a drag from his cigarette and offering me one. "Told you not to marry her."

Sitting down on the steps of the grand manor's entrance, I took the cigarette gratefully, glad for the distraction. Volk joined me, and we both sank into a cloud of smoke and silence. I let the smoke settle my nerves as it mingled with the biting winter air.

Fucking winter. Fucking snow.

I'd left Caia at home after the concierge dropped off my mail. She bolted for the heels, probably thinking I had a guest, so I decided to let her explore our new home without my constant scrutiny. I couldn't stop staring at her, and the thrill of having her as my wife was both exhilarating and maddening.

"She's terrified. Not of me, but of someone else," I muttered, bringing the cigarette back to my lips. "I think Mankiev really sold her, just like I fucking predicted."

The way she flinched at my touch, her constant avoidance of anything physical, that haunted look when I dug into her past—it was clear she'd been hurt deeply. It was a pain I recognized all too well from my mama's eyes.

Calling her a whore was a low blow. I was a damn fool for using insults just to get a reaction. I needed to stop thinking with my dick when it came to her.

"She probably got sold to one of his shithead friends," Volk shrugged, accustomed to this kind of crazy talk. "Old man's probably dead by now or living it up somewhere."

My chest burned. "If he's still alive, I'll fucking kill him."

The bastard just signed his own death warrant .

"Not too late to annul the marriage," Volk said casually.

I shot him a dark look.

"What? Just saying!" he shrugged, reaching for his phone as it rang. "Mankiev's daughter isn't worth the hassle."

I stayed silent, pulling out my own phone and texting Caia that I'd be home soon.

"She is, though."

She really was. There was something about Caia that went beyond the surface, something deeper and hidden. Just like I promised her this morning, I needed to make our marriage. And tonight… tonight was the night.

Tonight, I would have her in my bed, and I had a feeling it would change everything.

Slipping back inside, I made my way quietly to the dining room, where Igor was having lunch with Slavoy Sadiek, the chief of Moscow's police department and a notorious loser at poker. Just a few weeks ago, I'd cleaned him out in under five minutes, pocketing a cool 50K. Safe to say, he's been simmering with resentment ever since.

Igor had been working with Sadiek for years, knowing that the best way to navigate the law was to cozy up to corrupt officials. And Sadiek was the filthiest of the lot.

"Congratulations on your wedding, Alexsei," Sadiek said, lifting his glass. ?Disappointed I wasn't invited."

I'd rather pull my own teeth out than let Sadiek anywhere near my wife. His sleazy mustache and shifty eyes belonged in the murkiest corners of Moscow, far from us.

"Too scared you'd try to steal this one from me too, Sadiek. "

He laughed loudly before downing the glass in one gulp. "Touché."

A couple of years back, I used to fuck around with Leila Monieva, a cop from Sadiek's department. She was damn sexy and fun, so we had a fling until she suddenly cut ties. Didn't dig too deep back then, since we were more friends with benefits than anything serious. Turned out, Sadiek was also fucking her and got jealous. So, he blackmailed her into ditching me or losing her job.

"How's Leila, by the way?" I asked casually, realizing it'd been years since I'd heard from her. I wondered if she was still stuck working for him.

He shook his head, taking a bite of meat. "Married now; living in Poland. Two kids. A dog. You know, the cliché."

"Good for her."

He shrugged, chewing another mouthful before wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. "So, who's the unlucky girl?"

My gaze flicked to Igor, who sat silently, his attention glued to his plate. Since that night at the restaurant where we signed the marriage contract and I nearly throttled Mankiev for raising his hand at Caia, Igor had been fuming. He couldn't believe I went through with the marriage, especially after his warnings about Mankiev's daughter. Now, he barely acknowledged my presence.

"You don't know her."

"Possessive much?"

Igor took a sip of his red wine and said, "It's Mankiev's daughter, Caia. It was arranged. We get the cocaine and the girl, Mankiev gets the money."

"Caia Mankiev?" Sadiek chuckled. "Didn't know she was... your type."

Annoyance flared. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Nothing. Anyway, I've got to go," he said, rising and grabbing the vodka bottle. With a quick swig, he drained the last of it, clanking the empty bottle on the table and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Standing there with his 5'7" frame, bald head, mustache, and crooked nose, he looked like a dead ringer for Snidely Whiplash. The resemblance was so uncanny I almost laughed, but his annoying smirk killed any hint of amusement.

As Sadiek donned his police cap, bid his farewells, and left, I was left alone with Igor, who continued to eat with the enthusiasm of a sloth on a lazy Sunday. The silence between us was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.

"Say something, boss, anything. Or I might just shoot myself for how cold you're being."

Igor paused, his expression as deadpan as a zombie at a tea party, before finally responding, "Well, if you're going to shoot yourself, at least aim straight. We can't risk any more bullet holes in the walls."

I winced. "Thanks for the advice."

He sighed. "Congratulations on your marriage, son. I hope she'll make you happy." He then gestured for me to sit, and I braced for the inevitable—a solid hour of him reminiscing about his marriage and how Viktoria, his late wife, brought sunshine into his life.

At that moment, the idea of shooting myself didn't seem so terrible.