Dominic POV
I pulled the trigger without feeling anything.
That was the problem with killing—it stopped meaning something after the first hundred times. Alexei's body hit the ground, and all I felt was tired.
Tired of thieves. Tired of men who thought they could steal from me and live.
Tired of being my father's son.
"Clean this up," I told Viktor, handing him the gun. "Make sure—"
A crash echoed from behind us.
I spun around.
A girl stood twenty feet away, trash bag at her feet. Young. Blonde hair falling out of a messy ponytail. Uniform from the restaurant. And eyes—wide, terrified eyes that had just watched me commit murder.
Our stares locked.
She'd seen everything.
"Blyad," Viktor cursed. Damn.
The girl's face went white. Then she ran.
"Stop her!" I snapped.
My men took off, but I already knew they'd catch her. Nobody ran from Dominic Volkov. Not in this city. This was my kingdom, and she'd just stumbled into the throne room covered in blood.
Witnesses died. That was the rule. The only rule that mattered in my world.
So why did my chest feel tight watching her disappear around the corner?
Viktor's call came twelve minutes later.
"We have her location. She took a taxi home—apartment in Queens. We've got eyes on the building."
"Don't lose her." I slid into my car, my driver already pulling away from the curb. "Send me everything. Name, history, family. I want to know who saw me tonight."
My phone buzzed with files before we'd gone three blocks. I opened the first one.
Isla Monroe. Age 26. Works three jobs. Mother in hospital—stage four cancer.
I scrolled through the report. No criminal record. No connections to rival families. Just a broke waitress drowning in medical debt.
Nobody. She was nobody.
Which meant killing her should be easy.
I stared at her photo—a driver's license picture where she looked exhausted and sad. Something twisted in my gut. Something I hadn't felt in years.
Guilt? No. I'd killed that emotion the same day I killed my first man.
But something close to it.
"Boss?" Viktor's voice came through the phone. "What do you want us to do?"
"Bring her to the warehouse. Make sure she comes alone."
"You're not going to—" He paused. "You could just end this now. Quick. She'd never see it coming."
He was right. That's what my father would have done. No hesitation. No mercy.
But I wasn't my father.
Was I?
"Just bring her to me," I said. "I'll handle it."
She walked into the warehouse exactly twenty minutes later.
Viktor brought her through the main door, and I watched from the shadows of the upper office. She moved like a deer surrounded by wolves—shaking, alert, ready to bolt.
But she came anyway.
Brave or stupid? Maybe both.
I descended the metal stairs slowly, letting each footstep echo. Watching her flinch with every sound. Fear rolled off her in waves.
Good. Fear kept people alive. Fear made them obedient.
When I stepped into the light, she gasped.
"Hello, Isla." I let her name roll off my tongue. "Let's talk about what you saw tonight. And what it's going to cost you."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "I won't tell anyone. I swear. I'll forget everything. Please, just let me go."
"You'll forget?" I moved closer. "You'll forget watching me kill a man? You'll forget my face?"
"Yes!" Her voice cracked. "I'll forget all of it. I just want to go home. Please."
Lies. Pretty, desperate lies.
I'd heard them a thousand times. People always promised to forget. Promised to stay quiet. Then they ran straight to the police, or worse—my enemies.
"I don't believe you," I said softly.
She flinched like I'd hit her. Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. Trying to be strong.
Something about that made my chest tighten again.
"Then kill me." Her voice came out as a whisper. "Just do it quick. But please—please—don't hurt my mother. She's sick. She needs me. She doesn't know anything about this."
Room 304. The hospital report flashed through my mind. Stage four cancer. Six months to live, maybe less.
This girl's whole world was falling apart, and I was about to destroy what little she had left.
"Bozhe, pomogi mne," she whispered, eyes closed. "Spasi moyu mat'."
God help me. Save my mother.
In Russian.
Perfect Russian.
I froze.
"You speak Russian?" The question came out sharper than I meant.
Her eyes flew open. Fear turned to confusion. "My... my mother taught me. She's Russian. Why does that—"
"Say something else." I stepped closer, studying her face. "In Russian."
"I—I don't understand—"
"Skazhite chto-nibud' yeshchyo." Say something else.
She swallowed hard. "Ya ne khochu umirat'." I don't want to die.
Native accent. No hesitation. This wasn't high school Russian or tourist phrases.
She was fluent.
My mind spun through possibilities. A Russian-speaking witness who was desperate, broke, and alone. A girl with a dying mother and no options.
A tool I could use.
"I'm not going to kill you," I said.
Hope flared in her eyes. Pathetic, beautiful hope.
"You're going to work for me instead."
The hope died instantly. "What?"
"Six months. You do what I say, go where I tell you, speak when I allow it." I circled her slowly, watching her shake. "You'll translate for me. Attend events with me. Smile and nod and make me look like a respectable businessman."
"I don't—I can't—"
"You can." I stopped in front of her. "Because if you refuse, you die. If you run, you die. If you tell anyone what you saw, you die. And your mother?" I let the threat hang in the air. "County hospital doesn't have very good survival rates."
She made a small, broken sound.
"But," I continued, "if you agree, I pay for everything. Best oncologist in New York. Private room. Experimental treatments. Whatever she needs."
Her whole body went rigid. "You'd... pay for it?"
"Every penny. Consider it your salary."
I watched her mind work. Saw the moment she realized she had no choice. Saw hope and horror war across her face.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why would you do that?"
I leaned close, so close I could smell her perfume—something cheap and sweet. "Because now you can't refuse. Now you're mine completely."
She stared at me with those huge, terrified eyes. And something passed between us—some current I didn't understand. Didn't want to understand.
This was business. She was a tool.
Nothing more.
"Six months," I said. "Then you're free. Do we have a deal?"
Her lips trembled. She looked at Viktor standing by the door. At the blood still on my hands from Alexei's execution.
At the monster offering to save her mother's life.
"Yes," she finally breathed. "We have a deal."
Victory should have felt good. Instead, I felt something else.
Like I'd just trapped myself along with her.
"Viktor will take you home," I said, stepping back. "Pack a bag. My men will pick you up at six AM. Don't try to run."
She nodded, stumbling toward the door.
"Isla."
She turned back, fear painted across her face.
I wanted to say something. Wanted to tell her it wouldn't be as bad as she thought. That I wasn't the monster she'd seen in that alley.
But I was.
"If you betray me," I said quietly, "I'll make you watch your mother die slowly before I kill you. Understand?"
All the color drained from her face. "I understand."
She left with Viktor, and I stood alone in the empty warehouse.
A waitress. A witness. A desperate girl with Russian blood and no options.
I'd collected her like all my other tools.
So why did I feel like I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life?
My phone buzzed. Message from Viktor: She's crying in the car. You sure about this, boss?
I typed back: I'm sure.
But my finger hovered over the send button for too long.
Because I wasn't sure. Not at all.
This girl had looked at me with terror—but also something else. Something that made me remember being human before I became a monster.
And in six months, when she was finally free, would I be able to let her go?
Or would I have become exactly what my father always wanted—a man who owned everything he touched and destroyed anything he couldn't control?
I hit send and poured myself a drink.
Outside, dawn was breaking over my city.
And somewhere in Queens, Isla Monroe was packing a bag to enter hell.
My hell.
God help us both.