Page 11 of Bratva King

Alexei returned a brief nod before stepping inside. The entrance hall echoed with empty silence. Maksim was spending the evening with Lena, and Dimitri had dinner plans with Sofia. For the first time in weeks, Alexei found himself alone in the estate.

Well, technically, he wasn’t truly alone. Bodyguards occupied nearly every entrance, staff moved quietly through the halls, and security cameras watched every corridor. There were dozens of people inside the mansion, but somehow, it felt like he was utterly alone.

He wandered toward the dining room out of habit. The sight that greeted him made him stop. The dining table stretched nearly the entire length of the room, polished until it reflected the crystal chandelier overhead. It had twenty-four chairs, but tonight not a single place had been set.

The housekeeper appeared almost immediately. "Dinner is ready whenever you are, sir."

Alexei continued staring at the enormous table. "Have it sent upstairs,” he finally said.

She blinked. "Sir?"

"I'll eat in my room tonight,” Alexei stated.

“Of course, sir.”

He offered a distracted nod before turning away. The silence seemed louder now. His footsteps echoed through the hallway lined with generations of Volkov portraits. Men in military uniforms, women wrapped in jewels, and ancestors who looked stern enough to frighten painters looked back at him.

Near the grand staircase, Alexei slowed. His gaze settled on a familiar portrait of his parents. It had hung there for as long as he could remember.

His father stood tall in an expensive black suit, shoulders squared, his expression exactly as Alexei remembered. He looked imposing and commanding. Not even the painter had managed to coax so much as the hint of a smile from Viktor Volkov.

Strength had always mattered more than warmth. Beside him stood his elegant and beautiful mother, dressed in a deep emerald gown. Anyone seeing the portrait for the first time would probably describe her as graceful.

Alexei saw something else. She wasn't looking at the artist. Her face was turned slightly away, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the frame, far away.

As a child, he'd never understood why, but as a man, he understood. She felt trapped in this house her entire life. His father had ruled the Bratva with an iron fist, and he’d ruled his family the same way. Love had never entered into it.

Alexei stared at the portrait for another long moment.

"I hope you're happier now," he murmured quietly, the words meant only for his mother.

Then he forced himself to look away. He climbed the staircase toward his bedroom, the familiar weight of the estate settling around him. The room was exactly as he'd left it, immaculate and orderly. A place where every object had its place.

Dinner arrived a few minutes later. He barely tasted it. Instead, he found himself standing by the window overlooking the grounds, one hand resting against the cool glass. His thoughts drifted back to her again.

He should have been planning retaliation. Instead, he found himself wondering where she'd gone after leaving the rooftop. Whether she'd disappeared into the city as effortlessly as she'd appeared. Had she been punished for failing?

Whether the person who'd hired her had already started looking for someone else to finish the job. He'd spent years eliminating threats before they had the chance to become problems.

Logic dictated he should want her found as quickly as possible, dragged into one of the Volkov interrogation rooms. She would be questioned, broken, then killed.

That was how this world worked, and how he worked, and yet Alexei wanted real answers.

Who was she? Who had trained her to shoot with that kind of impossible precision? Who had convinced someone so disciplined to take a contract on him? Most of all, why had she spared his life?

His security team would eventually identify her. Someone always talked, and money always loosened lips. Sooner or later, she'd surface.

For the first time in years, Alexei found himself anticipating his next encounter with an enemy. It wasn’t because he wanted revenge or justice. He simply wanted to look into those dark, unreadable eyes again and finally hear the truth from the woman who'd held his life in her hands, then inexplicably given it back.

Chapter Four

Alexei knew he was never going to fall asleep. He'd spent the better part of an hour lying on his back, staring at the dark ceiling above his bed while the digital clock on his bedside table ticked relentlessly forward.

First, it was 2:41 AM, then 2:53 AM, and finally 3:07 AM.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same pair of dark, unreadable eyes staring back at him. The assassin. She'd occupied his thoughts all day, and now she was stealing his sleep.

With an irritated sigh, he shoved the comforter off himself and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.