CHAPTER TEN
1373 Words
MIKHAIL
Dana.
Is that really her?
Or some cruel trick of my mind—her doppelgänger dropped into the middle of Moscow just to mock me? That would be easier to accept than the truth. Because if she is really here—alive, breathing, sitting barely ten feet away—then nothing I buried six months ago is truly buried.
My gaze dragged slowly over her body, unashamed. She had changed. Sharper. Leaner. Like life had carved something out of her and replaced it with steel. And her eyes—those eyes—no longer held warmth. No softness.
But she was staring at me.
Not glancing. Not sneaking looks. She was burning her eyes into mine, as though she wanted to carve me open with them. As though she wanted me to feel her hatred the way I once felt her body beneath my hands.
I stubbed out my cigarette slowly, deliberately, dropping it into the plate without breaking eye contact. Whatever vulnerability my gaze had betrayed earlier, I buried it now. Replaced it with steel. With authority.
Six months.
Six months of torture. Six months of growth. Six months where my succession came and went as if my father hadn’t died screaming in his own blood. Power settled on me like a second skin. Absolute. Final. Every law bent for me. Every voice lowered when I entered a room. The organization was mine to rule, and I ruled it the only way I knew how—clean, brutal, without mercy.
I made decisions, I killed, sullied with blood, flushed out the cabinet and filled the cabinet with new fresh blood to help the Petrov organization move forward.
The Petrov organization moved forward under my hands, sharper, leaner, feared.
And yet—
Dana never left.
She stayed.
In my head. In my bed. In the space between my ribs where breath is supposed to come easy.
There were nights I writhed, teeth clenched, fists pressed into the mattress, haunted by that single moment. Her moans—too loud, too honest—echoing louder than any scream I’d ever heard. Louder than death. Some days I loathed it. Loathed myself for clinging to it. For replaying the memory of her body flushed against mine, the way she softened when I kissed her, the way my fingers traced her skin and she gave in.
How could one woman hold that much power over me?
How could she torture me without touching me?
She lived in my head.
And now she was here. In Moscow.
Doing what?
If it’s really her—and God help me, it is—then she didn’t come without a reason. Dana doesn’t move without purpose.
So what is she planning? She can't be in Moscow without a reason.
“Sir.” Mr. Perez’s voice dragged me back, unwelcome. My lawyer sat stiffly beside me, papers in hand, unaware that my world had just tilted.
“I was explaining the new deals that came in,” he said carefully.
“I’m not buying that warehouse,” I said flatly. “Not unless Chekhov serves me his head on a plate. He tricked me once. I won’t give him the chance again.”
“But sir—”
I turned slowly.
“Are you questioning my authority?” I asked quietly. “I didn’t bring my men because I didn’t want you uncomfortable. Don’t mistake that for weakness. They’re watching. You could die for less than this.”
His face drained of color.
“You’re my lawyer,” I continued. “So fix it.”
He nodded quickly and fell silent.
All I wanted was to dismiss him. To erase everything that wasn’t Dana.
Because she was still there.
Still seated. Still breathing. Now pretending I didn’t exist. Her legs crossed slowly, deliberately, and the reaction hit me hard. For f**k sake, the b***r I haven't heard in six months suddenly returned to me.
Sasha would feel so betrayed again, thinking of marrying her when I didn't care what she did or what she wanted. What she wanted to eat or what she liked.
But Dana—
Suddenly, I wanted everything.
How she survived those six months.
What she liked now.
What she hated.
What still haunted her.
I wanted to know it all.
And once I knew it—
I wanted to own it.
All of Dana and not share to anyone.
DANA
I had initially frozen when our eyes met and held each other.
Why was I too shocked? I have no idea but I was more afraid of my body betraying me again.
It had started to.
Because the back flips, the sudden sweet shudders in between my legs...
The bar’s warm light glinted off glasses, the low murmur of conversations brushing past me like distant noise. But I wasn’t part of it. Not yet.
Kyle.
He sat there as if the world had bent to accommodate him, his posture perfect, his eyes scanning the room—or maybe scanning me. And I was enjoying it.
I hate myself. The weak me infront of this boy that turned man over night and shot me. I can't show him how vulnerable I've become in his sight. Every muscle in me tensed.
The man beside him didn’t matter. Only Kyle did. Only the way he looked at me, so calm, so cold, so unreadable, I could almost forget the months I spent in the hospital, months I spent recovering and healing, plotting, planning.
I'm such a fool.
I sipped my drink slowly, pretending to examine the menu. My eyes never left him.
Each detail registered. The angle of his jaw. The way his fingers drummed the table. The faint scar near his temple, catching the light. I cataloged everything in my head. Why was I doing that? Why was I admiring him? Why am I getting wet for this same man?
So I was wrong. I had skipped uploading his footage to the press because...because...
He caught my gaze.
I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.
Kyle’s lips curved, almost imperceptibly. A small, dangerous smile. He knew. Somehow, he knew I was watching him. And maybe… maybe he liked that I was.
Fuck!
I set my cup down carefully, letting the tiny clink resonate just enough for him to hear. He didn’t move. Calm. Calculating. Ruthless.
I want him.
God, I want him so bad.
How could this man be the man I want. Before now, he's the product of my nightmare, he's the reason I wake up and feast on my hatred for him.
How could I want him?
He shot me!!!
I leaned back slightly, pretending to scroll through my phone, while my eyes tracked every flicker of movement, every twitch in his expression.
Then he spoke.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said quietly. Not loud enough for the room to hear, that's when I realised that he had sat across me, close enough for me to hear his scent more than smelling it.
Old money.
Russian old mafia money.
Who would believe that the innocent-looking man seated in front of me was the reason my life had split cleanly in two?
I raised an eyebrow, forcing my tone to stay level. “The same could be said about you.”
His eyes narrowed. Recognition. Amusement. Something darker. Something satisfied. I couldn’t read him—and it infuriated me.
“Russia suits you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t expect to find you hunting in the same territory as me.”
I leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, matching his calm with something sharp and deliberate. “I’m not hunting,” I said. “I’m just here.”
He smirked.
“Just here?” He crossed his arms—broader now, heavier with power. “No one comes to Moscow without looking for something. Name it. Person or thing. I’ll help you find it.”
That was when it happened.
The urge.
It rose slow and cruel, burning its way up my throat. Lingering. Demanding. Hotter the more I tried to choke it down.
Like a wounded tiger —angry, bleeding, feral.
And I snapped.
I leaned in—
And kissed him.
- Writer
