Pakhan gave me men when I needed them—never questioned how many. Some were young and too eager, others were older, worn down, and tired of bleeding for someone else’s power. None of them spoke to me unless they had to.
They were afraid.
Whether it was my face, my reputation, or the way I could crack a joke one minute and slit a throat the next—no one ever quite knew what to expect from me. And that uncertainty was its own kind of power. They followed my lead like dogs trained not to question.
I never tried to be their friend. Brotherhood was a fairytale, best left to men who hadn’t seen what I had. Results—that’s what mattered. That’s what kept me alive.
But there was one person in that entire mansion who didn’t seem even remotely afraid of me.
Fucking Kira Sokolova.
Didn’t matter how I looked at her—dead-eyed, cold, ready to snap her neck—she’d still bat her lashes like I was just another toy for her spoiled little collection.
One morning, I was outside the mansion, smoking before a meeting with Pakhan. She was strutting to her car, all legs and attitude, probably on her way to school.
“You should ask my father to assign you as my bodyguard,” she said, pausing just long enough to smirk.
“I’d rather shoot myself.”
She grinned. “Fine. But only after we take a cute selfie together—my friends don’t believe you exist.”
I rolled my eyes, finished my cigarette, flicked it to the pavement, and walked off without another word.
Another time, I came back from a job at five in the damn morning—blood on my gloves, exhaustion in my bones. I handed a briefcase to one of Pakhan’s men in the kitchen and poured myself a black coffee.
Then her voice.
“You drink your coffee black?”
I didn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be awake yet.”
She walked closer. I could hear it in the floorboards—barefoot.
“Neither should my attraction to emotionally unavailable assassins,” she said lightly. “And yet here we are.”
I glanced at her over my shoulder.
“Go back to bed.”
She ignored that completely, eyes dropping to my hands.
“You’re bleeding,” she observed, like she was commenting on the weather.
“Congratulations. You have eyes.”
She stepped closer anyway.
“Did you punch a wall?” she asked. “Or a man?”
“Kira.”
“I’m just narrowing it down.”
I took a sip of coffee.
She moved right into my space and caught my wrist before I could pull away.
Her thumb brushed over my knuckles.
