Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

"It is not titles that honour men, but men that honour titles."

― Niccolò Machiavelli

Alexsei

After a few more rounds of drinks and losing thousands to Volk, we made our way back to the office, just a few quiet streets away.

The city had settled into a tranquil silence; it was well past midnight, but business never truly slept.

Igor had recently made a significant discovery.

He'd connected with a new supplier dealing in a sinister blend of narcotics that had caused quite a stir in the underground. This concoction was unlike anything we'd seen before—a potent mix of painkillers, cocaine, and some illicit substance that had somehow slipped under law enforcement's radar.

The appeal of this new drug lay in its unparalleled addictiveness, making it a goldmine for those who knew how to distribute it—and that was our fucking specialty.

"What's his name?" I asked, as Volk tossed his cigarette to the ground.

He then removed his glove, revealing his hand to enter the code that unlocked the heavily guarded doors.

"Kristian Mankiev."

"Never heard of him," I replied, stifling a yawn.

We sauntered past the two armed pricks near the entrance, engrossed in a poker game like they had all the time in the world, and headed for the elevator.

"Late fifties, has a daughter, and owes the Silas a whopping 100 grand," Volk explained.

The elevator doors slid open with a chime, and we stepped inside as Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" blared through the speakers.

100 grand?

That's one hell of a debt for the Silas.

Igor usually doesn't loan more than 50k—it always turns into a fucking bloodbath.

"So, the bastard thinks he can wipe out his debt by selling us his shit."

Volk nodded silently. "Good shit, though."

I scoffed.

As the elevator doors opened, we headed toward the main office.

Dve stood outside, gripping his gun in one hand and his phone in the other.

Dve, our most trusted man, was not only our strongest fighter but also our sharpest operator. Still, I couldn't resist the urge to annoy him about where he got that ridiculous name.

Last only two damn seconds in bed with a bitch like Irina, and you'll never hear the end of it.

" Privet , Dve," I greeted with a sly grin.

Dve shot me an exasperated look. "Fuck you, Alexsei."

Volk sighed. "You two need to just fuck already so you can end this nonsense bitching." He smirked wickedly before pushing open the office door and leaving Dve and me scowling at each other in the hallway.

"Happy birthday, bratt . I wish you nothing but death," Dve grumbled, giving me a sardonic nod before turning and disappearing into the office.

I let out a dark, mirthless laugh. "Spasibo, bratt ."

In our twisted world, death was sometimes the sweetest gift you could receive.

"I'll give you one month without compensation," the old bastard said, a sly smile playing on his lips, "to clear my debt."

"You're in no position to negotiate with us," Igor shot back.

Kristian raised his hands in surrender. "Of course."

The tiresome conversation was beginning to wear on me.

We were all seated around a large, round ivory table in the dimly lit room, the air thick with cigar smoke and empty glasses scattered about.

I pushed back from the table and made my way to the window.

Outside, the streets were deserted, with snowflakes gently descending from the heavens. I raised a cigarette to my lips, watching a small black-and-white stray cat darting down the street with a rat clamped in its jaws, likely off to share the meager prize with its family.

"Two months off."

Kristian pursed his lips and reluctantly nodded. "Done."

My amusement grew as I considered Kristian's misguided belief that he had any real leverage in this situation.

Having known Igor for over a decade, I was well aware that nothing ever came easily from him. I couldn't help but wonder what fate Igor had in store for that hapless bastard.

My attention drifted back to the desolate streets, where a lone figure caught my eye.

The girl was dressed in a long black furry coat, its luxurious texture designed to fend off the bitter cold of a Moscow winter, and a matching black ushanka that cradled her head like a protective halo.

Her long chestnut hair cascaded down her shoulders and waist in soft, flowing waves, a stark contrast to the dark ensemble she wore. Her lips, a striking shade of deep red, stood out like a rose against the snow.

She navigated the snowy street with careful grace, her steps deliberate and unhurried, as if she were engaged in a delicate dance with the ice beneath her feet.

The cold air painted a rosy flush on her cheeks, giving her an ethereal aura.

She crossed the road and approached our building, her movements graceful and untroubled.

I raised my cigarette to my lips, the ember glowing softly.

What was a girl like this doing alone on the streets of Moscow at this hour?

The old man reached into his pocket and retrieved a small plastic bag filled with fine white powder. He presented it with a knowing grin.

"The best of the best. One shot, and you're addicted for life," he chuckled.

I shifted to face him, my back pressed against the cold window.

The room's dimly lit ambiance seemed to grow more ominous with every word spoken.

I scoffed. "How d'you know?"

A somber shadow passed across his wrinkled face as he leaned in closer, as if about to share a dark secret. "The last man I sold it to, well, he sold me his daughter for a second shot. Tragic, really. He died just two days later. Overdose."

Igor, never one to pass up an opportunity, interjected with a glint of interest in his eyes. "And his daughter? What became of her?"

He probably asked that to add another woman to his realm of prostitutes.

"Dead." Mankiev's smile grew sinister, and a chill seemed to settle in the room, colder even than the winter outside. "Suicide."

That fucking bastard probably forced himself on her.

Anger rose in my throat.

"I'll send you twenty kilos tomorrow night," he continued. "Caia is bringing the contract. I forgot it at home."

Caia?

Who the fuck was Caia?

I met Volk's confused eyes just as three small, shy knocks met the door.

The door creaked open, and the same girl I had been watching on the street earlier entered the room. Her long chestnut hair framed her face like a curtain, and she was still dressed in her black furry coat and ushanka.

Fuck, she's hot .

Kristian rose from his seat, his movements surprisingly aggressive, and took the contract from Caia's hands with force.

"This is Caia, my only daughter," he said curtly.

Daughter?

It seemed fucking inconceivable that a man like that old bastard would have such a beautiful daughter. It was a bizarre twist of fate, a twisted blessing that felt almost like a mockery.

I couldn't help but observe the delicate features of her hands, painted with red nails, her slightly pursed lips, and her shy, evasive green eyes.

I sauntered over to her, my eyes locked onto hers, and confidently took her hand in mine, planting a soft, teasing kiss on it.

Our eyes remained locked as I whispered, " Zdravstvuyte , Caia. I'm Alexsei Romaniev."

She quickly withdrew her hand, taking a step back as she shyly greeted everyone in the room. Her gaze shifted around the space, avoiding mine and preferring the floor.

"Kristian, how dare you disturb your poor daughter in the middle of the night? Don't you have men for that?" Igor asked with disdain, taking a sip from his glass. "Where's your gentlemanly conduct?"

We all knew why that miserable bastard brought his daughter into this godforsaken mess, flaunting her like some circus sideshow. He aimed to manipulate us, exploiting her charms to wiggle his way out of the muck he'd buried himself in.

In this world, countless men, or bitches as I like to call them, would peddle the women in their lives to secure their desires or save themselves from death, cementing their places as spineless cunts. And that damned old bastard had just enrolled in the school of bitches, adding another wretched chapter to his miserable legacy .

I watched her closely, feeling a pang of pity. She was nothing but a pawn in her father's evil game.

I guess that was her fucking fate for having Mankiev as her fucking father.

"She is happy to help, aren't you, my child?" Mankiev said with a strained smile, pressing her to respond.

The girl nodded silently. "Of course, Papa. Whatever I can do to make you happy."

Her voice was soft and carried a gentle, melodic quality, like a soothing lullaby. It was like honey and sweet peaches on a warm summer afternoon—a rare touch of innocence in our dark world.

"I've always cursed God for not blessing me with a son," Mankiev patted his daughter's shoulder. "But at least He granted me a beautiful daughter. Don't you think she's beautiful, Volkov?"

A cold chill ran down my spine.

What a fucking piece of shit.

Volk casually pulled out his phone, tapping away while keeping his cigar between his lips. "She is, Mankiev," he replied without glancing up.

"Is she for sale?" I inquired casually, my gaze locked with Mankiev's, who showed a hint of surprise.

He circled his daughter's shoulder with his arm, and she flinched slightly, her gaze still fixed on the floor while biting her lower lip.

" Nyet , Romaniev. She is my prized possession," Mankiev laughed, his grip tightening around his daughter. "Besides, she is too young for you."

A few seconds passed.

"There's a price for everything, Mankiev, isn't there?"

I took another drag of my cigar, the smoke curling around my face.

The room was filled with tension.

Mankiev might see his daughter as a prized possession, but in our world, nothing is truly untouchable if the price is right. I was simply testing the limits of the old bastard's resolve.

"We'll see you tomorrow, Kristian," Igor said suddenly, getting up and putting on his jacket. "Don't be late."

He walked to the door, signaling for us to follow.

I glanced at the girl one last time, and as she looked up at me, her eyes seemed to show both anger and... was it disgust?

"I bet you—" I started, but Igor cut me off.

"Don't even think about fucking with that poor girl," Igor warned as he headed towards the car. "Being Mankiev's daughter is punishment enough; she doesn't need your sorry ass to make her life even worse."

Dve opened the car door, waiting for Igor to take his seat.

I rolled my eyes. "Trust me, boss, no woman can say no to this face," I said, pointing to myself. "And who knows? Maybe a little distraction is exactly what she needs to forget that pathetic excuse for a father."

Volk scoffed. "Oh, right. And she needs you for that."

We settled into the back of the SUV—me in the passenger seat, Dve at the wheel, and Volk and Igor in the rear.

A deep silence blanketed the car as we drove towards the loft. The city's architectural beauty shimmered under the warm glow of the streetlights.

Despite my usual aversion to winter, I couldn't help but love this city, my home.

Heading back to the Manor was out of the question; it was too late, and the streets were swallowed by darkness. So, Dve drove us to Igor's condo instead.

To be honest, I was craving some rest and eager to shake off the lingering effects of the booze, so I couldn't wait to hit my bed.

Igor broke the silence abruptly. "She's hands-off, sons. I don't want any of you fucking around with that poor girl. I definitely don't want to give that bastard any reason to screw up our deal or feel like he's got something on me."

Fucking a partner's daughter was always a nasty business and, in our world, it was a surefire way to start a war.

So, it's simply not fucking worth it, even if she is a stunning green-eyed beauty named Caia Mankiev.