35

35


The mansion felt quieter when Mikhail walked in, but then again, it had always been quiet. It was probably his exhaustion finally creeping in.

Daniel's phone vibrated. He pulled it out from his pocket, swiping it open, before looking up at Mikhail. "Some new cargos just arrived at the warehouse," he informed, looking closely at Mikhail.

The boss might not have said anything, but he was too good at interpreting body language to not notice the way his muscles tensed up throughout the drive, the dark circles under his eyes.

Mikhail turned to face him.

"I'll go and check them over."

Mikhail nodded.

"I'll be away for the night...."

"I'm fine, Daniel," Mikhail gritted his teeth, rather irritated. "You don't have to worry about me." He walked away from him, rubbing his temples.

"Make sure all the shipments are correct, send the money to the dealer in separate accounts," he instructed, turning up the stairs.

Daniel responded in the affirmative, but he was too much in his head to hear anything.

He had two days to drill out every last bit of information that bastard Richard was hoarding, preferably without torturing or maiming, even when Richard was as good as dead to him.

He walked past Amy's room, pausing just to listen. He stiffened a little when he heard nothing.

"She should be back from work by now..." he muttered to himself, then took a deep breath, reminding himself that the mansion was big.

He couldn't expect her to be in her room all 24 hours like some kind of prisoner. Maybe she was in the library, reading a book.

But he needed her. The thought hit him before he had any explanation for it.

"Get a grip," he muttered harshly to himself, walking past the closed door to his room. What he needed now was a cold shower and a good strategy.

He walked into the dining room half an hour later. Amy was there, arranging the table, placing the plates and cutlery, humming a song.

Mikhail stood at the doorway, masking his surprise. He remained there for a beat, watching her move across the table gracefully in pink Hello Kitty pajamas, not quite trusting himself to walk.

"Mrs. Volkov," a servant walked past him with a tray full of food.

She looked up. Her eyes met his immediately. Amy hid a smile, setting down a napkin next to the plate. "Well, are you going to just stand there?"

Mikhail stepped in, his eyes darting across the room. "Where's the cook?"

Amy waited till he sat down, serving the casserole on his plate. "I gave him the week off. His little daughter just got admitted to the hospital."

Her eyebrows shot up at his stunned face. Did he really not care at all about his servants and workers that he didn't even know when something urgent happened? she wondered.

"Wait, you didn't know?"

"I had no idea," he admitted, pulling out his phone from his pocket.

Amy watched him, pretending to focus as she pulled out the glass cups from the shelf at the side of the dining room.

"Find out what hospital Chef Ben's kid was admitted in."

There was a pause at the other end, then the shuffling of feet, then a reply.

Mikhail didn't waste time, going straight to his next instruction. "Have the medical bills covered.... Yes, anonymous would be nice."

He finalized the details, slipping the phone back in his pocket, and was about to take a huge bite of the food when he caught Amy staring at him. She looked away immediately, but he saw the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"You know I'm not entirely ruthless, right?" he asked, leaning back on the chair with a proud grin, despite the tired shadows under his eyes.

She walked over, bolder than usual, resting her hands on the chair behind him. "Paying a couple of bills for someone isn't going to make you a saint, Mikhail," she mused, but there was a playful teasing in her voice. She too had started to see the changes.

He held her hand, taking a deep breath. "Just stay like this."

She tried to pull back from him, but he tightened his grip around her wrist.

Amy felt her pulse quicken beneath his fingers. She wondered if he could feel it, the way her heart was suddenly racing.

"Mikhail," she said softly, but there was no effort to pull away this time.

He looked up at her, and something in his expression made her stomach flip. The tired smile was still there, but there was something unguarded in the way he stared into her eyes, soaking her in.

"Just... five minutes," he said, his voice rough. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle on her wrist. "Let me pretend for five minutes that this is real."

The words hung between them, a different kind of silence filling the room. Her free hand moved, almost of its own accord. Her fingers brushed through his hair. She felt him tense beneath her touch, then exhale slowly like he had been holding his breath.

"It could be real," Amy heard herself whisper, surprising them both.

His grip on her wrist tightened, and his blue eyes searched her face for any hint of lies. There was no way she meant it.

"Don't," he said finally, his voice quiet, so quiet she felt something break inside her.

"Don't say things you don't mean."

"Who says I don't mean it?" she glared, her voice challenging, but her voice was barely steady.

Maybe it was the exhaustion in his eyes, or the way he called about those hospital bills without a second thought, or maybe a part of her was done with fighting, but she held his gaze for a heartbeat longer.

Her fingers were still in his hair. She could feel the tension radiating through his body like he was fighting, holding on to every last bit of self not to pull her closer.

The casserole might as well have been invisible on his plate. Neither of them moved, like they were both scared of ruining the moment.

"Amy," he started, but she pressed a finger to his lips.

"Eat your dinner, Mikhail, before it gets cold." She pulled back from him with an effort, every neuron in her body protesting. "Then you're going to get some sleep. You can go back to being the terrifying mob boss tomorrow, but tonight...."

She paused, her eyes flickering up to his even when she told it not to. "Well, tonight you're just tired."

Mikhail didn't know how he slept that night. Amy had stayed throughout the dinner, clearing out the plates afterwards. It was only the chef that got the week off. The rest of the servants were still around, but of course, he didn't say that, only watched from a distance, memorizing every detail about her like she was an angel that might disappear once the night was over.

He was insane for daring to hope.

He knew that.

But just maybe she didn't hate him that much.

And when finally he closed his eyes that night, giving in to the exhaustion, the first set of images flashed across his eyes in years.

A boy was at a field, racing through the brown grasses. It must have been mid-autumn, trying to keep up with another kid in front.

"Wait up, Viktor!"

Viktor turned over his shoulder, his pale face ruddy from all the running. "Keep up, Mikhail. You're as slow as a girl," he said, smirking at him.

Mikhail cursed in Russian, picking up the pace just so that he could hit him in the head and wipe that superior look off while he was at it.

He held a blue lightsaber in one hand. Ahead of them, in the middle of what must have been the woods, was a cabin house. An instructor stood at the entrance, holding a staff.

"Boys, careful."

Then the scene changed. The rain was pouring outside the cathedral. Aldar Volkov and half of the mafia sat at the front row of the pew. Mikhail sat next to his father in a black coat that reached his heels. He was older, only half listening to the solemn dirge from the reverend. His eyes were locked outside.

At a distance, a silhouette stood in front of a headstone, his black coat soaked and dripping in the rain, his back to him.

As though sensing that someone was staring at him, he turned.

All the way from there, Mikhail could see the fresh ink that covered his neck, and most likely every part of his pale skin.

He stared back at Mikhail in a hard look, fire crackling in his eyes, irises that were filled with hatred.

Mikhail stood up, but before he could take a step, Viktor was gone, turning the corner and disappearing from the funeral.

He should have done something... should have gone after him.

Before he could make up his mind, Aldar glanced up. "Sadís, syn." (Sit, son.)