Fractured Devotion (Dimitri’s POV)

Chapter 6: Shadows in the Rearview

I woke up tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, my heart pounding like I’d just run from a hit gone wrong. The dream lingered, vivid and unwelcome—Ethan’s face, those warm hazel eyes looking up at me, his lips brushing mine in some dimly lit room that smelled like fresh paint and rain. His hands on my skin, soft and unscarred, pulling me closer while I whispered things I’d never say aloud. It was bullshit, all of it. A fantasy my mind cooked up to torture me, because in reality, touching him would be like dragging an angel into hell.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my palm, trying to shake it off. The clock on my nightstand glowed 4:17 AM. Another sleepless night in this goddamn penthouse that felt more like a cage every day. The city lights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the marble floors. New York never slept, and neither did I, apparently. Not with him invading my thoughts like this.

Ethan Moreau. The French kid with the curly hair and that naive smile that made my chest ache. I’d saved him from that mugger a couple days ago, played the hero without meaning to, and now? Now I couldn’t get him out of my head. It was dangerous. Stupid. I was Dmitri Volkov, heir to the family empire, not some lovesick fool chasing after a college boy. My life was blood and deals, not stolen kisses in the shadows.

But fuck, that kiss in the alley… No. I shoved the memory down, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I needed to focus. Today was going to be shit anyway—Ivan had called a meeting last night, his voice clipped over the phone, demanding I show up at the warehouse by noon. “Family business,” he’d said, like I didn’t know what that meant. More pressure to seal that alliance with the Petrovs, probably. An arranged marriage to their daughter, Elena, to strengthen our hold on the docks. The thought made my stomach turn. She was beautiful, sure, in that polished, mafia-princess way, but she wasn’t… him.

I dragged myself to the shower, letting the scalding water burn away the remnants of the dream. As the steam filled the bathroom, I leaned against the tile, closing my eyes. Why him? Why now? I’d had flings before—discreet, no-strings things with guys who knew the score, who disappeared before dawn. But Ethan was different. He looked at me like I was more than the monster my father had molded me into. Like I could be redeemed or some poetic crap like that. It scared the hell out of me.

By the time I dressed—black suit, crisp shirt, the holster hidden under my jacket—I’d armored myself up. Pushed Ethan to the back of my mind where he belonged. Alex was waiting downstairs in the garage, leaning against my Audi with a smirk that said he knew I looked like shit.

“Rough night, boss?” he asked, tossing me the keys.

“Fuck off,” I muttered, sliding into the driver’s seat. He chuckled, climbing in beside me.

We drove in silence for a bit, weaving through morning traffic toward the warehouse in Brooklyn. Alex fiddled with the radio, landing on some rock station that blasted guitars and angst. Fitting.

“You gonna tell me what’s eating you?” he finally asked, eyeing me sideways.

“Nothing.” Lie. But Alex was my best friend, my right hand—he’d been there since we were kids running errands for the old man. He knew when I was full of it.

“Right. And I’m the Pope. This about that French kid? The one you ‘accidentally’ saved?”

I gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. “Drop it, Alex.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying, D. You’ve been off since you met him. Staring into space like a teenager with a crush. It’s cute, really.”

“Cute?” I shot him a glare. “You think any of this is cute? Ivan’s breathing down my neck about loyalty, about the Petrov deal. If he finds out I’m… distracted by some guy—”

Alex’s expression sobered. “He won’t. Not from me. But you gotta be careful. The family’s got eyes everywhere.”

I knew that. Too well. The Volkov syndicate wasn’t just a business; it was a web of obligations, secrets, and betrayals waiting to happen. My mother had learned that the hard way—gunned down in a crossfire when I was twelve because some rival thought she knew too much. I’d sworn then I’d never let anyone close enough to become a target. And yet, here I was, dreaming about Ethan like he was the answer to prayers I didn’t even make.

We pulled up to the warehouse, a hulking brick building disguised as a shipping depot. Inside, the air smelled of oil and salt from the nearby river. Ivan was already there, pacing like a caged wolf, his silver hair slicked back, suit impeccable despite the grime. A couple of our guys lingered in the corners, arms crossed, waiting for orders.

“Son,” Ivan greeted me, his voice a low rumble. No warmth, just expectation. He nodded at Alex, who melted into the background like the good soldier he was.

“Father.” I stood straight, meeting his gaze. Those steel-gray eyes that mirrored mine, but colder.

We got down to business—shipments delayed, a mole in the ranks we needed to flush out. But I could feel the undercurrent, the real reason he’d summoned me. It came halfway through, when he dismissed the others and turned to me with that dissecting stare.

“You’re distracted, Dmitri,” he said, lighting a cigar. The smoke curled up, acrid and thick. “I’ve seen it before. Women, usually. Or men.” He spat the last word like it was poison.

My blood ran cold. Did he know? No, he couldn’t. I’d been careful. “What are you talking about?”

He puffed, exhaling slowly. “Don’t play dumb. You’re my heir. The Volkov name rests on you. But lately? You’re sloppy. Missing details in reports. Showing up late to meets. If it’s a whore distracting you, handle it. Cut them loose.”

Anger flared hot in my chest. “It’s not—”

“It is,” he cut me off, stepping closer. His face inches from mine, the cigar ash glowing. “Loyalty, Dmitri. That’s all that matters. To the family. To me. You think I don’t know about your… preferences? I’ve turned a blind eye because you’re useful. But if it threatens us? I’ll cut you out myself.”

The words hit like a knife to the gut. Preferences. Like it was a flaw, a weakness. I’d hidden it for years, buried it under layers of violence and duty. But Ivan always knew. Of course he did. He knew everything.

“I’m loyal,” I growled, fists clenching at my sides. “I’ve bled for this family. Killed for it.”

“Then act like it!” he roared, slamming his fist on a crate. “Seal the deal with Elena Petrov. Marry her. Give me grandchildren to carry on the line. Or are you too busy chasing skirts—or worse—to do your duty?”

We stared each other down, the air thick with tension. Part of me wanted to tell him to fuck off, to walk away from it all. But I couldn’t. This was my life. My blood. “Fine,” I bit out. “I’ll meet with her.”

He nodded, satisfied for now. “Good. Now get out. Handle that shipment to Queens.”

I stormed out, rage boiling under my skin. Alex caught up as I climbed back into the car. “That bad?”

“Worse.” I revved the engine, peeling out onto the street. I needed air. Space. Something to clear my head.

But my mind kept circling back to Ethan. Maybe that’s why I found myself driving toward NYU instead of Queens. “Accidentally,” of course. I told myself it was just a detour, that I wouldn’t stop. But there he was, stepping out of a lecture hall, backpack slung over one shoulder, those curls tousled by the wind. He looked tired, shadows under his eyes, but still so damn beautiful it hurt.

I pulled up to the curb, rolling down the window. “Need a ride?”

Ethan froze, his hazel eyes widening in surprise. “Dmitri? What are you doing here?”

“Passing by.” Lie. But he hesitated only a second before nodding, glancing around like he was afraid someone might see.

“Uh, sure. Thanks.” He slid into the passenger seat, the scent of him—something fresh, like citrus and sketchbook paper—filling the car. It was intoxicating.

I pulled away from the curb, the engine purring smoothly. The city blurred past us, skyscrapers reflecting the afternoon sun. For a moment, it felt normal. Like we were just two guys, no mafia bullshit hanging over my head.

“So,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “how was class? Learning how to paint masterpieces or something?”

He chuckled, a soft sound that eased the knot in my chest. “Art history, actually. Today was about Renaissance masters. Da Vinci, Michelangelo. All that tortured genius stuff.”

“Tortured, huh?” I glanced at him, smirking. “Sounds familiar.”

His cheeks flushed a little, and he looked away, biting his lip. “Yeah? You don’t strike me as the artistic type.”

“Oh? What type do I strike you as?” I teased, my hand brushing his knee accidentally as I shifted gears. Or maybe not so accidentally.

He shifted in his seat, but didn’t pull away. “Mysterious. Intense. Like you could stare down a storm and win.”

I laughed, low and genuine. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Ethan.”

“Is that a promise?” His voice dropped, flirty, those hazel eyes meeting mine with a spark that sent heat straight through me.

God, he was bold when he wanted to be. “Careful,” I warned, half-joking. “You might get more than you bargained for.”

He leaned back, smiling. “Maybe I want to.”

The banter flowed easy, charged with that undercurrent of want. We talked about nothing and everything—his life in Paris, my “business” trips (I kept it vague), favorite spots in the city. For those few minutes, the weight of Ivan’s words faded. Ethan made me feel alive, not just surviving.

Then my phone buzzed in the cupholder. Once. Twice. Insistent.

I glanced at the screen. Alex: Trouble at the docks. Petrov’s men stirring shit. Need you now.

Fuck. Reality crashed back in.

“Everything okay?” Ethan asked, noticing my grip tighten on the wheel.

“Fine,” I snapped, sharper than I meant. The flirtation evaporated, replaced by that cold edge I hated but couldn’t shake.

He flinched, confusion flickering across his face. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” I pulled over abruptly, tires screeching a bit. We were only a block from his dorm. “We’re here. Get out.”

“Wait, what? Dmitri—”

“I said get out.” My voice was ice, walls slamming up. I couldn’t let him see this side, the monster lurking. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He stared at me, hurt flashing in those eyes before he masked it. “Okay. Thanks for the ride, I guess.”

He slammed the door, walking away without looking back. I watched him go, regret twisting like a knife. But it was better this way. Safer. For both of us.

Or so I told myself as I sped toward the docks, the dream from last night mocking me in the rearview mirror.