Page 65 of Ruthless Serenade

I mutter a curse under my breath as I reach for the phone on the nightstand. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Mr. Korolev," Mrs. West’s voice greets me. "I apologize for calling so early, but I must delay our meeting by an hour. There was a pipe burst in the building overnight and I need time to handle the situation."

"No problem," I reply. "An hour later works for me."

I put the phone back on the nightstand and almost immediately drift back off to sleep. By the time my eyes open again and I look at the clock, it’s 10 AM.

Ublyudok!

I fucking overslept. That never happens to me. My head is still reeling from the dream I had about Mindy earlier. It feels real, every goddamn time.

I push myself up and sit on the edge of my bed for a while, trying to force my body awake. A cold shower is just what I need on a morning like this.

I step into the bathroom, turn on the tap, and let the icy water cascade over me for five minutes. Once I feel ready, I shut off the flow, dry myself, and head to my wardrobe to choose some fancy clothes. I want to look presentable for my discreet visit to Willow Heights today.

Today’s meeting with Mrs. West has a very specific agenda: to discuss plans to support Sharon Williams.

The whole thing is anonymous, of course. The idea is to set up a bank account with enough money to cover her school fees and her therapy sessions for her selective mutism. In return, Mrs. West will keep me updated on Sharon’s progress. While it isn’t strictly legal, it isn’t illegal either. Mrs. West has agreed to cooperate, and I’m going to make sure she gets compensated for her efforts.

I look at myself in the mirror and I’m pleased with what I see. I almost look like a billionaire philanthropist instead of a ruthless Bratva leader. Which suits me just fine.

As I head to the garage to get my car, there’s this strange feeling nagging at me, one I can’t seem to shake. It’s aboutSharon. That little girl I saw on stage at the Willow Heights event last week. She triggered something in me, something I locked away a long time ago. I can’t name that feeling. All I know is that it’s intense, primal, and it comes from a place I didn’t even know existed anymore.

I can’t help but think that it has something to do with the daughter I lost: Cordelia. It’s more than just the physical resemblance between her and Sharon. She struggles with words almost the same way as Cordelia did.

Because of her Down Syndrome, it was tough for Cordelia to talk. I clearly remember the frustration in her eyes when she couldn’t get her point across. And when she did, it was like fireworks going off.

And then there’s Sharon with her selective mutism. I barely know who she is. I don’t even know who her parents are. All I know is that she is being raised by a single mother. But every time I think about her and the help she’s going to get from me, something warms in my chest. It’s like a shot at redemption for me. A chance to make a difference for a kid who needs it. Something I tried so fucking hard for my sweet Cordelia and failed.

I check my watch and freak out. Fuck, I’m running late! Mrs. West is waiting for me and I can’t keep her hanging.

I start my car and weave into traffic. But just as I’m about to merge onto the highway, it hits me - the fucking documents! How could I have forgotten? After my meeting with Mrs. West, I have a crucial appointment with a major distributor for Tramoxine, and those papers are essential to seal the deal.

Chert voz’mi, Korolev!

Head in the game, mudak!

I switch lanes and make a quick U-turn at the nearest junction. But as soon as I step into my office, my eyes are drawn to the cabinet door where I keep my documents - it’s wide open. Which is fucking strange because I always lock it tight.

Maybe you forgot to lock it last night.

You’re getting senile, dolboyob.

Unless I’m not. The instincts I honed back in my Bratva days are screaming at me. My entire body is alert, ready for a fight. Something feels off.

I slowly move forward, scanning the room like a predator assessing his domain. Everything looks normal, but I know it isn’t. I never leave my cabinet unlocked. Keeping my hand close to the gun hidden in my pants, I search the room for intruders.

There’s no one.

The room is empty.

Once I’m sure there’s nobody hiding in my office, I walk up to my cabinet and check the lock. It’s intact. Whoever opened it had access to it. Maybe I am getting senile after all.

"Kakogo cherta,"I mutter under my breath.

I rummage through the cabinet, but everything appears to be in order. The files are neatly organized and undisturbed. Nothing is missing.

Fucking strange.

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