CHAPTER 5

Vasily Pov

The days since he left have been a black fog. I've spent the days buried in my office, the familiar scent of old leather and power a hollow comfort. The city of Moscow, my city, sprawls below, and I feel nothing but a cold, hollow rage. Adrian Volkov. His name is a poison on my tongue, a constant, buzzing sound in my brain. I see him everywhere, in the blank faces of my guards, in the polished steel of my desk, in the reflection of the city lights in my window. He is a ghost I can’t exorcise, a mark I can’t scrub clean.

"The men are ready for your orders, Don," my consigliere, Nikolai, says, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

I turn from the window, my gaze sweeping over him. Nikolai is a rock, a man I can always trust. He is a part of me, a part of this organization. But right now, I feel like a stranger in my own skin.

"Send them away," I order, my voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I have no patience for incompetence today."

Nikolai doesn’t question me. He simply nods, the slight frown on his face a sign of his concern. He knows me. He knows I am a man of immense control, a man who never lets his emotions cloud his judgment. He knows this isn’t me.

The five men I had executed today were not incompetent. They made minor mistakes, the kind I would normally overlook. But today, their small transgressions felt like monumental insults, a reflection of the chaos I feel inside. They were a testament to my lost control, my shattered calm. My anger has no outlet, so it turned on them. They were an easy target. I am a monster, a monster with blood on his hands. It doesn't matter. What's done is done.

A knock on the door jolts me out of my thoughts. Dmitri enters, a glint of something I can’t quite place in his eyes. He is my best friend, my closest confidant. I should be able to tell him everything. But how do I tell him that I, Don Vasily Petrov, the formidable leader of the Russian Mafie, woke up in bed with another man? How do I tell him that the man I slept with is Adrian Volkov, my future brother-in-law, a man I despised, and that I can't stop thinking about him?

"Vasily," he says, his voice a silky drawl. "You’ve been locked in here all day. What’s going on? You’re wound so tight you could snap."

I turn back to the window. "Business," I say, my voice clipped, a shield I hide behind.

Dmitri’s laugh is a dry, humorless sound. "Business? You killed five men today for forgetting to cross a 'T'. That’s not business, my friend. That’s something else."

I turn to face him, my eyes narrowing. "You’ve said enough." My voice is a low, dangerous whisper, a clear warning.

He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, a smirk playing on his lips. "Okay, okay. I get it. You don’t want to talk about it. But you should know, the word is spreading. People are starting to talk."

I ignore him, my gaze fixed on the darkening skyline. "What time is the dinner?"

"Seven," he says, his voice returning to its normal cadence. "But you’re the Don. You can be late. It’s expected."

I hate this. I hate the way the world expects me to be a certain way, to act a certain way. I hate the pretense, the lies, the carefully constructed facade. But I have a duty. A duty to my family, to my legacy. A duty to marry Isabella Volkov, to forge an alliance that will secure our power for generations to come.

Isabella. My stomach twists with a bitter mix of guilt and shame. She is a sweet, gentle girl, too kind for this world, too good for me. I am a monster, and I am about to ruin her. She is in love with the idea of me, a fantasy she has created in her mind. She has no idea of the man I truly am. She deserves so much better. I am disgusted with myself, a Don of a family who is doing this to an innocent soul. But I have no choice. I am a man of duty.

I get ready for the dinner, the process a mechanical, meaningless ritual. I put on my suit, a finely tailored piece of armor that makes me feel like a stranger. The car ride is silent, my thoughts a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. I am a man on a mission, a mission I want to fail. I want to turn back, to hide, to pretend none of this is happening. But I can't.

We arrive late. The Volkov Estate is a fortress, a testament to their wealth and influence. The guards, like mine, are silent, intimidating figures. I am led inside, and the sight of the family at the dinner table makes my blood run cold. They are a picture of perfect, calculated calm, a family that knows their place in this world.

The air at the Volkov dinner table is thick with a pretense so fragile it could shatter with a single word. I am late, a deliberate display of my power, and the silent fury of Valerius Volkov is a palpable force. He doesn't call me "boy," a foolish mistake a lesser man might make. No, he knows better. He sees the ruthless efficiency behind my facade, the cold indifference in my eyes. He sees the predator, and he knows enough to fear him.

"We were just discussing the logistical challenges of merging our security divisions, Don Petrov," Valerius says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He doesn't look at me, but his words are a clear challenge, a test of my attention, my authority.

I meet his gaze, my own eyes as hard as granite. "Challenges are for the unprepared, Don Volkov. The Petrov family has no challenges, only solutions."

The silence that follows is heavy, a testament to my dominance. Valerius's jaw tightens, but he doesn't respond. He can't. Not without losing face in front of his family, his lieutenants.

And then I see him.

Adrian.

He is sitting at the table, a picture of casual elegance, in a deep, midnight blue suit that makes his eyes look like a raging storm. He looks at me, and his eyes are devoid of all emotion. He acts like nothing happened. The anger in me is a slow-burning fire, a need to remind him, to make him remember what we did, to make him feel the same chaos I feel. He has no right to be this calm, this composed, this… perfect.

Across the table, Adrian watches me, his eyes a dark, knowing mirror of my own. He is a ghost, a constant, buzzing static in my brain. He laughs at a joke his sister makes, a perfect, practiced laugh that sounds like a lie. He is a man of light and shadow, and the duality of his existence is driving me to the brink of insanity.

Isabella, sweet and innocent, turns to me, her face glowing with a naive happiness that makes my stomach churn with guilt. "Vasily," she says, her voice as soft as silk, "Did you have a good day?"

The question is so simple, so painfully naive, that it feels like a physical blow. I want to tell her the truth, to confess to the monster I am. But I can't. I have a duty. I have a legacy to protect.

"It was a productive day, Isabella," I say, my voice a flat, emotionless thing. "A man must be productive."

I glance at Adrian, and a flicker of something, of understanding, of contempt, of… something else… crosses his face. He knows. He knows what my "productive" day entailed. He knows the monster I am. His presence at this table is a constant, suffocating reminder of my lost control, my shattered calm.

Our gazes lock, and the air between us crackles with a toxic tension. It’s a silent, brutal war of wills, a battle for dominance that neither of us can afford to lose. We are a part of a world that would destroy us if they knew the truth. I am a man of duty, a man of control. But Adrian Volkov, with his dark eyes and his mocking smile, is a dangerous addiction, a poison I can't stop craving.

Then, Adrian excuses himself to use the restroom, a polite, practiced smile on his face. I watch him go, and a moment later, I stand.

"If you’ll excuse me," I say, my voice flat. "I need to use the restroom."

I am directed down a long, winding hallway, and I follow the directions like a man on autopilot. I have to get out of here. I need a moment, a moment to breathe, to think, to regain my composure. I can’t be near him without losing my mind.

I open the door, and I stop dead in my tracks.

Adrian is standing there, leaning against the wall, a cigarette between his fingers, a silent, swirling cloud of smoke around him. He looks at me, and his expression is unreadable.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his voice a low, challenging whisper.

"I… I needed to get away," I say, my voice a low, rough sound. "I needed to think."

He nods, his gaze fixed on my face. "And thinking about me brings you to the bathroom? That’s not a good sign, Don Petrov."

"Don’t call me that," I say, my voice filled with a rage I can’t contain.

"Why not? It’s who you are, isn’t it? The cold, powerful Don who doesn’t do… relations… with men."

I take a step forward, my fists clenched at my sides. "You have no idea what you’re talking about."

"Don’t I?" he asks, his voice filled with a mocking, bitter humor. "I remember a different man last night. A man who wasn’t so sure of his identity. A man who wasn’t so sure he wanted to marry my sister. A man who was a little bit scared of what he was feeling."

My hand flies out and slams against the wall beside his head, a loud, echoing crack in the silent room. He doesn’t flinch. He simply looks at me, his eyes wide and dark.

"Stop playing games," I snarl, my face inches from his. "Stop acting like nothing happened."

"And what do you want me to do, Vasily?" he asks, his voice still low, still challenging. "Do you want me to tell everyone? Do you want me to scream from the rooftops that the great Don Petrov is a fraud? That he’s a man who has betrayed his family, his legacy, his duty for a forbidden moment of passion?"

The words are a physical blow, a harsh, brutal truth that I can't deny. My body is on fire. A desire, a need, a longing I have never felt before, tears through me. I want to kiss him. I want to shut him up. I want to make him stop talking, to make him stop looking at me with those dark, knowing eyes.

My lips descend on his, a punishing, desperate, hungry kiss. He tenses for a moment, and then his lips respond with a fire of their own, a raw, demanding passion that matches mine. He drops his cigarette, and his hands come up to my face, his fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer. I am lost, completely lost in the moment, in the feel of his lips on mine, the taste of smoke and him on my tongue. I am a man drowning, and he is the oxygen I crave.

“Vasily?” a voice calls from the hallway.

The sound is a splash of cold water. We break apart, our chests heaving, our eyes wide with shock. It’s Isabella. Her voice is sweet, innocent, concerned.

We have been caught.