I left the kitchen and made my way into the library. The shelves were lined with books that had clearly been read instead of just collected, and as I ran my fingers along the spines, something else caught my attention. A set of photo albums tucked into one corner, worn enough that they had been handled frequently. I hesitated before pulling one down and sat on the edge of the couch.
I opened it slowly, not sure what I expected to find, but the first few pages nearly broke something inside me. A little boy looked back at me, dark hair messy, a shy smile on his face that didn’t belong to the man I knew. Alexei at six or seven looked almost soft, his small shoulders relaxed, his expression openin a way that felt impossible to connect to the man I had married.
There were photos of him with his mother, her arm wrapped around him, both of them smiling in a way that felt real, and for a moment, it was hard to look at anything else. But the change came quickly with each turn of the page, with each passing year, and it didn’t slow down.
His smiles faded first, replaced by something more serious, more guarded, and by the time he reached ten, there was nothing soft left in his expression. His mother was no longer in the pictures as if she just disappeared.
By twelve, the scars started to show on Alexei. A cut along his cheekbone, another splitting his lip, and bruises dotting his arms and neck that told their own story without needing anyone to tell me how he got them. His eyes changed the most, losing whatever warmth had been there and turning cold in a way that felt permanent.
I turned the pages more slowly after that, watching the boy disappear and the man take his place, broad-shouldered, tattooed, scarred, and detached in a way that felt carved into him. The Butcher didn’t appear overnight. He was built piece by piece, year after year, and seeing it laid out likethis made it impossible to ignore what it must have taken to get him there.
I reached out without thinking, my fingers brushing over a photograph where a jagged scar cut across his collarbone, and something heavy settled in my chest as I tried to understand it. I knew our world wasn’t kind to sons raised to lead, but this was more than that. This was something else entirely, something deeper and darker than I had allowed myself to consider.
I closed the album slowly and placed it back exactly where I found it, but the images flashed through my mind as I made my way out of the library. The house felt different now, less like something unknown and more like something I was starting to understand, even if I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
The kitchen gave me something else to focus on, something normal in a way the rest of the house wasn’t.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the clean counters and untouched appliances, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with myself in a place this big. Everything here belonged to him, every room, every detail, and even though it was my home now, too, it didn’t feel like mine yet.
I thought about those pictures of that little boy and the smile he wore that had long since vanished. I realized I wanted to prepare dinner for him, to offer something that felt normal in a world that was everything but.
The staff had been moving through the house earlier, quiet and efficient, but the moment I stepped into a room, they seemed to disappear without being told. Doors closed softly behind them, footsteps faded, and by the time I turned around, I was alone again. It wasn’t avoidance, not exactly. It felt intentional, like they were giving me space, like they understood I wasn’t just a guest here but something else entirely.
Before I could overthink it, I reached for my phone. As the line started ringing, I hesitated because I knew exactly what kind of world Alexei had stepped back into the moment he walked out that door. I pictured him surrounded by his men, conversations hushed and controlled, every word carrying weight, and for a second, I almost ended the call.
He answered on the second ring, and I froze.
“Lucia.” My name came out of his mouth first, low and certain. It wasn’t the voice he used for business, not sharp or distant but carrying a soft weight. “Are you okay? You’re alright?” The concern in his voice was palpable, and it startled me.
“I…” I paused, forcing myself to keep going before I lost my nerve. “I’m sorry to bother you?—”
“You never bother me. You call me whenever. Any time. For any reason.”
I smiled and glanced down, feeling my heart stutter a bit. “I wanted to ask you something.”
There was a brief shift on the other end, the faint sound of movement, and then his voice lowered further, quieter without losing its edge. “You can ask me anything,” he said. “What is it?”
I drew in a small breath, my fingers brushing the edge of the counter as I spoke. “I was thinking about making dinner,” I said. “I didn’t know if you’d want that… or if you’d rather have something brought in. I didn’t know if you’d prefer the staff to handle that?” The line went silent after that, and I worried I’d overstepped.
“You want to cook for me?” he asked finally, slower this time, like he was working through it.
Confusion filtered through me as I stared out the window. “Yes. You’re… you’re my husband, and I’d like to prepare a home-cooked meal for you. If you’d like.”
There was a pause, longer than thefirst, and for a second, I thought I had misread everything, that this wasn’t something he wanted, that I had, in fact, crossed a line I didn’t understand yet. Then he exhaled, long and steady, and when he spoke again, something in his voice had shifted.
“I’m sorry I’m not alone right now,” he said, and I could hear it then, voices in the background, the muted presence of other men. “I wish I was home… with you.”
I felt a blush steal over my cheeks hearing him say that.
“But I want that, Lucia.”
I stilled slightly at the sound of his voice saying my name.
I could picture him saying it against my ear as he thrust into me. I closed my eyes, my body heating and shaking at the memory of Alexei claiming me.
“I want you to cook for me,” he continued, his voice rougher now, like he wasn’t holding it back the same way. “I want to come home and know you’re there. I want to eat something you made with your hands. Just for me.”
Something tightened in my chest at that, something warm and unfamiliar, and once again, I thought about that little boy in those photos. Iwanted to see him smile like that, a smile that showed he was truly happy.
