Background Check (Dmitri POV)

I didn’t sleep.

Not really.

I lay on the leather couch in the loft above the garage on 14th Street, staring at the exposed beams, listening to the low hum of the city that never shuts the fuck up. The bed in the corner stayed empty. Always does when I’m like this—too wired, too restless, too many ghosts crawling under my skin.

The kid’s face kept flashing behind my eyes.

Ethan.

Soft curls. Hazel eyes that looked right through the bullshit most people never even see. That stupid little wave he gave me at the gallery, like I was someone worth smiling at.

I hated how much space he was taking up in my head.

I rolled off the couch at four-thirty, showered cold, dressed in black—jeans, thermal, leather jacket—and texted Alex before the sun was even thinking about rising.

Need background. French kid. NYU. Ethan Moreau. First name’s enough.

His reply came in under ninety seconds.

You’re kidding.

Do I look like I’m kidding?

Three dots. Then:

You’re actually doing this.

Just run it.

He sent back a single middle-finger emoji, followed by:

On it.

I spent the next two hours doing what I do best: waiting while pretending I wasn’t losing my mind.

By eight, Alex was at the garage door with two coffees and a tablet. He didn’t knock—just walked in like he owned the place. Which, technically, he kind of does. Half the properties in this family are in both our names anyway.

He tossed the tablet onto the workbench and dropped into the old office chair that creaks like it’s dying.

“Ethan Moreau,” he said, like he was reading a police report. “Twenty-two. Born Paris, sixth arrondissement. Single mother, father not listed. Older sister, Sophie, works in publishing. Scholarship kid—full ride to NYU for art history. No priors. No red flags. Clean as a fucking nun’s underwear.”

I leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “That’s it?”

“That’s the public stuff.” Alex sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim. “Private stuff… he’s got a sealed juvenile record from when he was seventeen. Paris court. Domestic-related. Nothing violent on his end—looks like he was the complainant. Ex-boyfriend, maybe. File’s locked tight. I’d need to burn favors to crack it.”

“Don’t.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“I said don’t.”

Alex studied me for a long second. Then he shrugged. “Your funeral.”

I picked up the tablet. Scrolled through the photos Alex had pulled—social media, school ID, a candid from some Paris art festival last year. Ethan laughing, head thrown back, sunlight on his face. Another one of him sitting cross-legged on the floor of what looked like a gallery, charcoal smeared across his cheek, completely lost in whatever he was drawing.

I stared too long.

Alex cleared his throat. “You gonna tell me why we’re running a kid who looks like he cries at ASPCA commercials?”

I handed the tablet back. “He’s been in the wrong places at the wrong time. Twice.”

“Uh-huh.” Alex didn’t buy it for a second. “And the fact that he’s stupid pretty has nothing to do with it?”

I shot him a look that usually makes people flinch.

Alex just grinned. “Relax. I’m not the one who can’t stop thinking about him.”

I turned away, grabbed my keys. “I need to know if he’s a liability.”

“Sure. That’s why you’re doing this. Liability assessment.”

“Fuck off, Alex.”

He laughed—short, sharp. “You got it, boss.”

I left him there and took the bike.

Rode uptown, weaving through morning traffic, letting the roar of the engine drown out everything else. I told myself I was just checking. Making sure the kid wasn’t some plant, some honey trap, some random civilian who’d accidentally wandered too close to the Volkov world and would need to be… handled.

That’s what I told myself.

But when I ended up parked across from the NYU art building around noon, watching students spill out onto the sidewalk, I knew I was full of shit.

I spotted him almost immediately.

He was wearing a faded green sweater that looked too big for him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, messenger bag slung across his body. Laughing at something one of his classmates said—some tall girl with pink hair. He threw his head back the same way he did in those photos, and the sound of it carried even across the street.

My hands tightened on the grips.

He was so… open. So unguarded. Every smile, every gesture, like he had nothing to hide. Like the world hadn’t taught him yet that trust is a currency most people can’t afford.

I hated it.

I hated how much I wanted to keep watching.

A guy walked up—lanky, floppy blond hair, all easy confidence. Said something that made Ethan laugh again. Then the guy touched Ethan’s arm. Casual. Friendly.

My jaw locked so hard I felt it click.

Jealousy hit like a fist to the sternum—sudden, ugly, irrational.

He’s not yours.

He’s not anything.

He’s just a kid who doesn’t know what kind of monster is staring at him from across the street.

I forced myself to look away.

Started the bike.

Pulled into traffic before I could do something even stupider—like cross the street. Walk up to him. Say something. Pretend I was normal.

I rode back downtown with the wind cutting through my jacket, trying to freeze out whatever the hell this was.

When I got back to the garage, Alex was still there. Leaning against the workbench. Waiting.

He took one look at my face and sighed.

“You’re fucked, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

Just dropped my keys on the bench and walked past him.

Because yeah.

I was.

And the worst part?

I hadn’t even spoken to him yet.

Not really.

But I already knew what it would cost me if I did.

Everything.