Lev
The Antonov family thinks I'm weak.
That's the only explanation for why they'd be stupid enough to move product through my docks without permission. Why they'd recruit from my territory. Why they'd test boundaries like I'm too distracted hunting Patrick to notice.
They're wrong.
I notice everything.
Which is why I'm standing in their warehouse at 2 AM with fifteen of my best men, watching Dmitri Antonov realize exactly how badly he's miscalculated.
"Lev—wait—we can discuss this—" He's on his knees, hands zip-tied behind his back, face already swelling from where Yaroslav hit him.
"There's nothing to discuss." I crouch to his level. "You moved product through my docks. Recruited my men. Operated inmy territory without permission or tribute. Those are capital offenses, Dmitri. You know that."
"We thought—with Patrick hunting you—you wouldn't notice—"
"You thought wrong." I stand. Gesture to Mikhail. "Make an example. I want every family from here to Chicago to understand what happens when they test me."
What follows is methodical. Brutal. Designed to send a message that echoes.
Dmitri's men die fast—bullets to the head, efficient and clean. But Dmitri himself? Dmitri gets the kind of death that becomes legend.
I don't participate directly. Just watch as Mikhail and Yaroslav work, ensuring the message is clear: Lev Volkov is not distracted. Not weak. Not vulnerable.
Still very much in control.
By the time we're done, the warehouse looks like a slaughterhouse. Blood paints the concrete in patterns I've seen too many times to count. Bodies stacked like cordwood. Dmitri's screams finally silent.
I walk out covered in blood spatter and the kind of satisfaction that comes from solving problems with violence.
The drive home is quiet. Mikhail doesn't comment on the state of my clothes, the blood on my hands, the way my knuckles are split from hitting Dmitri's face at one point when he begged too much.
Just gets me home safely.
It's 4 AM when I enter through the side entrance, planning to shower in the guest wing before anyone sees me like this.
But Valerie is waiting in the hallway.
She's in one of my shirts, bare legs, hair loose around her shoulders. She must have been sleeping in my bed—our bed now, I suppose—and woke when I wasn't there.
Her eyes track over me. The blood. The split knuckles. The exhaustion.
"You're hurt." Not a question.
"I'm fine."
"Shower?" She moves toward me, completely unbothered by the gore. "You need to clean up."
I follow her upstairs to my bathroom. She starts the water while I strip, and I see her looking at every bruise, every mark, every sign of violence on my body.
When the water's hot, she steps in with me still wearing my shirt.
"You'll ruin it," I say.
"Don't care." She pulls the shirt over her head, drops it outside the shower, and reaches for the soap. "Let me help."
I let her.