2

Chapter two

Landon

“How would you describe yourself?” 

I almost roll my eyes at the older woman sitting in front of me. She calls herself a therapist— something I don’t need. And yet, here I am. My friend insisted considering the woman is his fucking aunt. All that woman is a professional eavesdropper is all. 

I keep my calm as I answer. “Hot.” 

“Landon, I can’t help you if you’re not honest with yourself,” she says pointedly. 

I don’t need help at all is what I really want to say, but instead settle with something less offensive because contrary to popular beliefs, I’m not a complete asshole. “I’m being honest, Mrs Hollis. I am hot. Don’t you think so?” 

A deep shade of pink rushes to her cheeks and she looks away. I bite back a smirk at her reaction. 

“Mr Volkov, you know that is not what I mean when I tell you to describe yourself.” I can tell her patience is wearing thin, but then again, she brought this upon herself. I didn’t ask for this. She and her nephew did. 

“So, I’ll ask you again. How would you describe yourself?” 

I roll the ring between my fingers, slow, like I’m winding a clock I don’t mean to stop. How would I describe myself? Easy. Hot. Handsome. Dangerous. The obvious stuff, the surface—what people see and want to see. Underneath that is something quieter and uglier. I like order down to the bone. Mess sets my teeth on edge. It nags at me until I fix it, drag it out, erase it. That compulsion is tidy violence; control is its language.

I don’t do feelings the way other people do. When the room tilts, I don’t cry — I catalog. I mark the smallest fractures and walk away with them in my pocket. I could break this woman here, right now, and sit down to a pizza like nothing happened. That’s the honest part: I’m efficient. I don’t swell with guilt. Numbness takes over. I’m a clean kind of cruel.

I don’t answer. I will not admit any of this to a fucking stranger I know nothing about. Instead, I watch her waiting for some twitch of outrage, pity, anything remotely human. She fidgets with a pen, breathes small, thinking she’s making progress with me. Fine. Let her think that. I’ve learned patience is a strong weapon too. 

The numbness used to scare me. Now it’s a comfort. It means nothing is loose inside me, nothing rattling around that might fall out and make noise. Noise gets you caught. Noise gets you soft. Soft is dangerous.

Control started as survival. Small rules, tiny rituals: one clean shirt folded the same way, shoes aligned like soldiers, a plate left exactly on the edge of the counter. When everything else is chaos, those little things tell me I’m still here, still able to act. But the more I polish, the more I realize control doesn’t erase the mess — it buries it. And buried things have a way of coming up at the worst times.

So yeah — I’m efficient. I can be cruel and still set the table after. I can close a chapter and wash my hands and be the same man who walks into a room with a smile. That doesn’t make me innocent. It just makes me survivable. For now.

The woman across from me leans forward, soft with the kind of concern that wants to fix people with words. For a second something like… envy flickers through me. Not for her life, but for the simple faith she has that talking can change anything.

“We’re done here,” I say instead, already standing up. “Thank you for the lovely session.”

“You… you’re welcome.”

—

Agreeing to doing business with Gerald Hawthorne is not something I intended to do at any point in my life. But my best-friend, Mason, has a way of convincing me to do things I won’t usually do. For instance, doing business with the fucking Hawthorne. They’re dirty. They deal drugs. I hate drugs. 

Yet, here I am, listening to Gerald Hawthorne finalizing the deal we just made, holding out his hand for me to shake. I decline as politely as I can, lying about being a germophobe. 

I can tell he’s annoyed by this. Humiliated, even. Angry. No one dares to not shake his hand, after all. But he doesn’t know me. Not really. He thinks I’m just a corrupt fed who he can buy. But little does he know. 

Years of training and my survival skills tell me when I’m being watched, and right now, I am being watched. It doesn’t take me long to find out who’s watching me. Observing me. 

Standing on the balcony, a girl leans on the railing, her eyes are fixed on me, studying me. I do the same to her. I know who she is. I’ve seen her before. One would have to be living under a rock if they don’t know who that girl is. But god, I’ve never seen her in person. Not like this. 

Isabella Hawthorne really looks like a fucking goddess. She’s beautiful. So damn beautiful. Her long brown hair looks so soft that it makes me want to run my fingers through them. Her eyes… dark green eyes stare back at me. She isn’t wearing any makeup like in all those pictures of her online. Dare I say, she is exquisite. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s a spoiled daddy’s girl. 

She shakes her head at me as if I’ve said something offensive even though I’m well aware I was only thinking that she’s a spoiled rich girl. Then, she turns around and heads back inside.

“Just keep the feds out of our business, yes?” Gerald’s voice snaps my eyes away from his daughter’s balcony to his ugly face. “I don’t want any trouble with them.”

“Sure,” I nod. “You won’t have any problem with the feds. I’ll handle it.”

Mason owes me. Big. Fucking. Time. 

“Oh, and I have another request for you.”

I raise a brow at the man, amused that he used the word ‘request’ instead of ‘Job’ or ‘order’. He’s intimidated by my presence. I can tell. At least my reputation precedes me. He knows I don’t play by the rules. Good. 

“And that is?” 

He hesitates. “I have a gala to attend next week. I would like for you to come with me. Us attending together shows a united front.”

“Pass.” I have to refrain from rolling my eyes. This man is absolutely stupid if he thinks I’ll attend some gala with him. Like we’re dating or something. 

The thought grosses me out. 

“I have an invite to said gala, too,” I say, taking out my car keys. “I’ll attend alone.” 

He nods quickly. “Yes, of course. I understand.”

I don’t bother saying anything else to him as I get in my car, wanting nothing more than to leave this house.