Chapter 12: Sinful Union: Chapter 12

The ocean stretches out endlessly, glittering like a sheet of diamonds. The air is thick with the scent of sea salt. A few yards away, our private chef prepares a delicious meal of fresh, grilled seafood.

Kat isn’t a woman who gets lost in thought for no reason. She looks calm, relaxed even, but I know better. She’s here physically, but she’s somewhere else entirely mentally. Something seems off. I think back to last night, replaying our lovemaking. I’d taken her, claimed her, made her mine. For a woman like Kat, who’s bold and independent, that dynamic does not come naturally.

But she took me willingly, wholeheartedly, and it was amazing. Maybe she’s having regrets about marrying me, but I sure as hell don’t.

She pushes a piece of fruit around her plate, her gaze locked on the horizon, but there’s no focus behind it.

I pick up my wineglass and take a slow sip, watching her carefully, giving her time to pull back from wherever her mind has taken her. But she remains locked in her thoughts, drifting further away.

I set my glass down. “What are you thinking about?”

Her fork stills, her fingers tightening around it just slightly.

For a brief second, her expression appears unguarded, then just as quickly, the blank stare returns. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, blinks once, and pastes on a practiced smile. “I was just wondering what your house looks like,” she replies, reaching for her wine lass.

Complete lie. Too easy. Too polished.

I don’t call her out on it. Not yet anyway.

“My house?”

She nods.

“Yeah. I mean, we’re husband and wife now. That means we’re going to be living together. I’d like to know what kind of home I’m moving into.”

Kat has never been good at lying, and in this moment, she’s lying through her teeth. I know every little tell she has, even after being apart all this time. The slight hesitation before she speaks, like she’s filtering her thoughts. The barely-there shift in her posture, like she’s bracing for something. The way her fingers tap against the table in a calculated beat as she prepares her next move. I know her too well. In my line of work, a man lives or dies by how well he can read people.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “It’s a penthouse. Takes up the entire top floor of the building.”

Kat tilts her head, considering. “Do you own the whole building?”

“I do.”

Her lips part just slightly, and I can see the wheels turning in her head, the way she’s processing this little piece of information.

“It’s in Tribeca,” I continue. “The building is on a quiet street, tucked between old industrial lofts that have been turned into multimillion-dollar condos. A lot of old money, but also a lot of new money trying to prove itself. I don’t deal with any of that.”

I grin, taking another sip of wine. “There are a few tenants on the lower-level floors, but I rarely see them. I have a private elevator that goes up to my penthouse.”

Kat sets her glass down, her fingers running idly over the rim. “I think I remember it,” she says, more to herself than to me. “When we were younger, I begged Piotr to take me with him to pick you up once.”

I nod. “You were maybe sixteen?”

“Something like that. I didn’t go inside, though. Piotr made me stay in the car.”

Of course, he did. Even back then, Piotr had a tight grip on what she did, where she went, whom she spoke to.

I stretch my legs out beneath the table, noticing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear again—another tell. She’s working through something in her mind.

“My father owned the building back then,” I tell her. “It was one of the first major properties he acquired in the city. At the time, our fathers had plans to merge our families; a full alliance. They were going to move your family into one of the lower floors once everything was in place.”

Kat stiffens, tension creeping into her shoulders. I pause, watching her, assuming the reaction is from grief. I exhale sharply.

“I shouldn’t have brought that up. I know it’s a painful subject.”

I expect her to say something. To brush it off or nod in agreement. But before she can respond, one of my bodyguards steps forward, his voice low as he whispers into my ear. The air shifts before I even hear the words.

“Novikov made a move.”

The information lands like a gunshot.

I don’t react immediately. I finish my last sip of wine, set the glass down, and exhale through my nose before speaking. “What kind of move?”

“A power play. Direct challenge.”

My jaw tightens, but my expression remains stoic. I knew it was coming. I fucking knew it. Novikov has been waiting for an opening, and I gave him one the second I stepped away. The second I let my guard down.

Kat is watching me, eyes sharp, calculating. Her phone rings. We both glance at the screen.

Piotr.

Kat reacts quickly, putting the call on speaker before answering. “You’re on speaker,” she announces immediately, “and Pavel’s here with me.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Piotr’s voice fills the air. His hesitation before speaking gives me the impression that he had something else he wanted to discuss with his sister, something he didn’t want me to hear.

“Speak, Piotr. What’s going on?”

“Novikov’s men hit multiple businesses last night,” Piotr says. “Locations that were under both Andreev and Fetisov protection.”

“Go on,” I say.

“A homemade bomb went off at one place, drive-by shootings at the others. And before you ask, no visuals on the shooters. Cars were found a few hours later, stripped down to nothing.”

I don’t move. I don’t blink.

“How bad is the damage?” I ask, my voice like ice.

“Four dead,” he says.

Kat stiffens beside me.

“All civilians,” Piotr continues. “Innocents. Several more injured. The businesses are destroyed.”

A muscle ticks in my jaw as rage coils inside me, but I don’t let it show. Novikov wants a reaction. He wants me reckless. I won’t give him that.

Kat shakes her head, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass. Her horror is written all over her face. Novikov made a sloppy, desperate play, and now innocent blood has been spilled.

Unacceptable.

I let the silence stretch, let the weight of the moment settle before I speak. “Kat and I will be leaving for New York within the hour.”

Piotr doesn’t sound surprised. “Good.”

I end the call without another word.

Kat exhales slowly, placing her hands in her lap. She doesn’t look at me, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. Finally, I stand. She lifts her chin, meeting my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I have calls to make.”

“I’ll handle the bags,” she says simply.

I step toward her, reaching out before I can second-guess myself. My hand cups the back of her head, my fingers threading through her hair as I press a slow, deliberate kiss to her forehead. Her breath hitches. I step away and reach for my phone.

I have a war to handle.