Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

"I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine."

- Jane Austen

Volk

As I stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut, I sensed the impending rainstorm. The fresh, moist air hung heavily around me, and light gray clouds gathered in the sky.

Nodding to the armed guards at the entrance, I ensured the dogs were not out yet.

The house felt lifeless without Igor, leaving me restless and irritated.

I couldn't focus on anything, not even finding Vlad, without feeling like my once prestigious job had become a mere courier task. Delivering her pictures of the past filled me with frustration. I had better fucking things to do than that.

When Igor first assigned me this ridiculous task, I hoped it was a joke, but he was serious. It was a blow to my already bruised ego.

As I made my way to the library, the sound of the old clock's pendulum echoed through the quiet hallways. The heavy wooden door creaked as I pushed it open, and the smell of old books and leather bindings filled my nostrils. Inside, rows of antique volumes stood, their spines cracked and yellowed with age.

I strode to the bar cart, crystal glasses tinkling softly as I poured a generous measure of whiskey. The warmth of the amber liquid chased away the tension and frustration that had plagued me all day. Leaning back in a plush armchair, I let the drink soothe my frayed nerves. For a moment, the only sound was the gentle clinking of ice in my glass as I swirled it around, lost in thought.

I had arranged to meet a supplier at a remote warehouse to discuss our new products, but to my fucking dismay, half the stuff was missing. I told Dave to lock down the warehouse and took charge by restraining our two associates. After hours of negotiations—or what others might call threats—the only solution left was one of my favorites: dismemberment.

This punishment is both disgusting and satisfying. Some might call it barbaric, but it's the most fitting for those who dare to steal from us.

An eye for an eye. You take something from me, I take something from you.

Plain and fucking simple.

Thieves are nothing more than rats that need exterminating and watching them writhe in agony until death claims them is immensely gratifying.

In a fit of annoyance, I tore off my jacket and flung it onto the dark burgundy velvet sofa by the blazing fireplace. My teeth gritted and fists clenched, I seethed at the thought of being robbed again. The bastards responsible would pay dearly.

Seeing blood on my white shirt—Dimitri's blood, that worthless piece of shit—only fuelled my anger. He didn't listen and went to see and touch Sofiya. I made sure he understood the consequences of his actions. As he lay there, barely able to move, I felt a dark satisfaction. He deserved every bit of it for his defiance and stupidity.

I usually prefer to let others do the dirty work, but this time, I couldn't resist getting involved personally. Dimitri had pushed me too far. He had no respect, no fear, and that enraged me. I had made things clear to him, but he didn't care. He thought he could continue to provoke me.

If he wanted to play games, I would let him think he had the upper hand. But when he least expected it, I would strike hard and hit him where it hurt the most. That son of a bitch would be in for a big fucking surprise.

Despite my hatred for snitches, I had to admit Dasha's loose lips had come in handy.

As the distant thunder grew louder, I unbuttoned my shirt and grabbed the nearest bottle of Beluga Epicure, pouring a generous amount into my now-empty crystal glass. The sweet and earthy flavor of the expensive liquor filled my mouth, its warmth sliding down my throat.

I settled into the comfortable sofa, watching the flames in the fireplace dance as the storm raged outside.

Fire, both creator and destroyer. I couldn't stop thinking about its paradoxical nature.

But soon, my thoughts shifted to a different kind of fire.

Memories I'd tried hard to forget resurfaced. Images and sounds of someone I shouldn't be thinking about swirled in my mind, tantalizing and forbidden.

Recalling past hookups has never been my thing.

The memories of scents, whispers, sights, and moans rarely stick with me. But ever since our plane landed a few days ago, I can't shake the memory of that damn gas station. Sofiya's lips on mine, her tongue teasing mine—it's been haunting me.

Igor would cut my dick off and make me eat it if he knew how I treated his daughter—how I let her grind on me in that filthy gas station toilet.

That night in the club, I watched her from afar, my eyes never leaving her. It had been a week since I landed in San Francisco and started my hunt.

I followed her everywhere—to the stores, to university, to the cinemas, and that damn club where she looked so good and quite wasted.

I took the chance, praying she wouldn't remember my face, and my prayers were answered.

I danced with her, her body pressed to mine, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes twinkling.

When she asked me to kiss her, I thought she was joking, but then I saw the insecurity in her eyes, and I knew she was serious.

My attempt to just play with her bit me in the ass.

Her scent still clung to my nostrils, and the taste of her mouth drove me to drink and smoke ten times more than usual just to erase it from my body. Thank God for my high alcohol tolerance; otherwise, I'd have ended up either skinny-dipping in a frozen lake or, worse, banging the girl in Igor's office .

With a heavy sigh, I brushed my hair out of my face, my frustration increasing by the fucking minute. Even after doing so, the feeling persisted, and I found myself massaging my scalp to soothe my roots.

I still can't fucking believe that Igor's got me delivering pictures like a fucking psychopath.

And the girl couldn't be more unbothered by it.

She just sits there in her night clothes, barely giving me a glance or acknowledging the pictures. Her dismissive attitude makes my blood boil.

Where's the girl who was begging for freedom?

I should burn them all in front of her, erasing those precious memories from her brain. Or maybe I should tie her up and make her look at them every damn day and night, just to hear her shaky voice again. Damn it, anything for some fucking action.

Igor will fucking pay for this.

With annoyance still gnawing at me, I reached for a nearby cigar and lit it up, hoping it would help me unwind. As I exhaled the first puff, the anticipated storm finally arrived, unleashing a symphony of raindrops that pounded relentlessly against the windows. The sound was oddly soothing, and I closed my eyes, rolling my shoulders to release some tension as I savored the sweet and nutty flavors of my cigar.

As I breathed in the peace, I reflected on my love for the chaos of the city. The honking cars, the bustling crowds, and the extravagant luxuries always left me feeling alive and energized. But in this room, I found a different kind of luxury—the luxury of stillness and serenity that no amount of city life could ever provide.

All I needed was a drink, maybe a cigar too, depending on my mood, and nothing else .

This room was precious to me. It had become my sanctuary, where I could lose myself in thoughts, books, or simply in silence, undisturbed by the outside world.

As I brought the cigar to my lips again and gazed at the magnificent library before me, nostalgia swept over me.

Within those walls were hundreds of books that had helped me dream, learn, and combat loneliness.

This room always reminded me of my dad; he was always on my mind.

He would have been thrilled with this collection, especially the hardcovers, which he would have deemed fancy and almost too precious to touch. I could almost picture him here, reading to me from The Little Prince or reciting his favorite poems by Alexander Pushkin. We would have curled up on the couch, warm blankets draped over us, holding cups of spicy tea. This was the place where I contemplated what my father would have thought of my chosen path.

As I became lost in these melancholic musings, lulled by the soothing rain, I barely noticed the door creaking open and the sudden intrusion into my solitude.

Despite sensing a shift in the room, I feigned ignorance and continued smoking, my eyes still closed. I focused on the slow footsteps moving around the library, attempting to discern the identity of the intruder, though deep down I knew it could only be one foolishly naive girl.

Finally, my little guest had decided to explore and make her presence known in my domain.

I couldn't help but feel a faint tug at the corner of my lips, which I quickly wiped away with the back of my hand.

Like a lost lamb lured into a pack of wolves, she had blindly walked straight into the wolf's den, completely unaware of what was to come.

I took one last drag from my cigar.

Let the fun fucking begin.