Chapter 43

Chapter

Forty-Three

"The rain fell like dead bullets."

― Scott Nicholson

Volk

"Judging by the smudge on your face, I guess she didn't like your little surprise," Alexsei said with a smirk, puffing on his cigar, his legs casually resting on his living room table.

I shot him a hard look, trying to ignore his taunting.

"Don't worry, she'll come back eventually," he continued, enjoying himself. "For whatever reason, your wife loves your ugly face."

I glanced at my watch and plopped down on his fancy couch, trying to calm my nerves. I had just left Sofiya's place and needed a drink, so I hit up Alexsei for some w hiskey.

Now, here I was in his gaudy, all-marble-and-black living room.

The place was hideous.

"Shut up, Romaniev."

I took a swig of the whiskey; the burn distracted me from the chaos in my head.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "I've been her babysitter for three months. Trust me, she's head over heels for you. Every time your name comes up, her eyes light up like a fucking Christmas tree."

I clenched my jaw. "She said she needed more time."

Alexsei raised an eyebrow, blowing another smoke ring. "And since when are you a patient man?"

I glared at him, not in the mood for his sarcastic remarks.

"Alright, alright," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "What are you gonna do?"

What am I going to do?

I had no fucking idea.

For the first time in my life, I was facing a situation I had no clue how to handle.

Part of me wanted to force her to want me, and the notion of abducting her again didn't seem entirely bad.

But I needed to be sure she was with me because she genuinely wanted to be, not because she was being forced.

I want her to be happy just as much as I want her in my life.

I let out a heavy sigh, frustration settling in. "What would you do?"

Alexsei exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I'd spank her ass hard and make it clear who's in charge."

"Already tried that."

He smirked, clearly amused. "Well, then you might have to get creative. "

I leaned back and ran a hand through my hair. "I just don't want to mess this up."

"You can't control her feelings," he puffed on his cigar again, the smoke swirling around him.

"All you can do is be honest about yours."

His words struck a deep chord within me, resonating with my fears and doubts.

I flopped down onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling.

Honestly, I was fucking scared.

Scared of losing her, of messing things up, of ending up in that lonely place again. The thought of her slipping away tugged at my heart.

Wait.

Scared?

What the fuck has she done to me? I haven't felt fear in a long time.

The fact that this feeling of inadequacy has crept back into my life is driving me insane.

I am going to spank her hard for that too.

I had been scared of losing my dad, scared of dying from hunger, scared of facing complete solitude.

But I had never been scared of anyone before, especially not of losing a woman.

Damn it. I needed to visit the psychiatric emergency room and get myself healed as soon as possible.

I cleared my throat. "Who picks a red couch with black floors? Are you a fucking Satanist?"

"May I remind you that your ex-girlfriend is staying in my apartment? It's Scarlett's place," Alexsei shot back, clearly annoyed by my comment. "She's letting me use it. "

I wanted to correct him that it was my apartment now, but I let it go.

Scarlett Harper, former singer of the American group Little Angels, was the poster child for the classic "it girl" turned rebellious.

She regularly graced tabloid covers, hopping between partners, experimenting with drugs, strutting half-naked on Miami's beaches, and even shoplifting from thrift stores. Her wealthy father, a self-made media tycoon, ensured she stayed in the spotlight.

Her name was familiar even to young girls in Russia, many of whom wished for long, curly red hair like hers.

"Well, she's probably some damn Satanist," I mumbled, closing my eyes and rubbing my temples.

"Who knows, but since I've become her manager, I can tell you she's becoming a better citizen," Alexsei replied. "She even started recording her new solo album."

I hummed. "How's Caia?"

Caia was Alexsei's ex-wife whom I haven't seen since she ran away two years ago.

Something devastating happened between them, prompting her to ask for a divorce.

"She's fine," Alexsei said. "She's here. In New York."

I opened my eyes abruptly and sat back down, a laugh escaping me.

I should've fucking known.

"You fucking bastard. No wonder you were so willing to stay in New York. You wanted to keep an eye on your ex-wife."

" My wife and that's not your fucking business."

What the fuck.

I guess Alexsei was still obsessed with his Caia.

?

The silence was broken by Angelo's phone buzzing.

He reached for it, glanced at the screen, then casually slid it back into his pocket without answering.

Sitting confidently at his desk with his legs crossed, he wore a challenging smile. Angelo Lazzio, CEO of Lazzio I simply couldn't.

My mind was buzzing with thoughts of how to make her realize we were meant to be.

She was the only one for me.

If I couldn't be part of her life, my existence felt meaningless.

I yearned to see the same love in her eyes that I witnessed the night we parted ways, and again last night when we made love.

"Jesus, you're really in love," he said, sitting straight up. "Well, I'm in."

"How much? "

"Fifty grand," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"Make it seventy. I owe you big time."

"Got it. Tomorrow, the place is yours," he said, rocking in his chair.

I settled on my final option: renting the place.

With Sofiya's exhibit from last night generating buzz all day today, everyone was singing praises for Angelo Art Gallery, considering it one of the finest in NYC.

Sofiya's work was truly captivating—it artfully depicted the journey of a daughter entangled in the trials and tribulations of loving someone disapproved of by her mother.

I wondered if she drew from her own life for this exhibition.

"When are you heading back to Moscow?"

I wasn't sure, but one thing was crystal clear: I wouldn't return alone.

I'd endure this rundown, rat-infested city for as long as she chose to stay here.

The thought of an ocean separating us again was fucking unbearable.

"As soon as she's ready to come back with me."

Three gentle knocks on the door interrupted us.

We looked up to see Jade Whitenhouse peeking her head through the doorway.

She greeted us with the fakest smile I'd ever seen and apologized for the interruption.

Dressed in a snug, vibrant red mid-dress that left little to the imagination, her cleavage peeking slightly at the top, long black hair cascading straight down her shoulders, a large white bow clip adorning her head, and her blue eyes accentuated with dark eyeliner, she looked like she'd stepped out of a hentai scene.

Angelo hated her, or so he claimed.

When I asked why he hadn't fired her already, he only responded with, "She's good at what she does."

My ass.

They were probably fucking, or she must have something on him.

I'd bet twenty grand on the latter.

"We need to discuss the transfer of Cupid and Psyche to the Louvre," she directed at Angelo. "Seems those statues took their sweet time coming back, and now they're feeling generous enough to ask for a little extra to cover the delay." Her eyes moved casually between us, and she added, "Of course, I can swing by some other time if that suits you better, boss."

Angelo sighed.

"Don't bother. I'm done here," I said, rising from my seat and heading for the door.

I shook Angelo's hand before heading towards the door.

As I walked through the hallway, Jade shouted, ‘It was nice to see you, Volk! Don't worry, I'm sure Sofiya will come around.'"

Damn it, now we were the subject of everyone's gossip in this fucking city.