Page 18 of Emperor of Havoc

I still don’t know how he got in, or left without a trace. I’ve gone over the security footage from all over the house myself, frame by frame, looking for a flicker of movement, a single shadow out of place. There wasnothing. It’s like he materialized out ofthe darkness itself, grabbed me, put his hands on me,made me come, and then vanished again like smoke.

My chest tightens as I remember his hand—strong, unrelenting—pressing the back of my neck.Threeof his thick fingers driving in and out of me. His voice, deep and dangerous, sending a shiver skittering down my spine as he whispered things I can’t let myself even think about now in the cold light of day.

I remember my heart racing, torn between terror and the thrill of surrender, and the heat of him, far too close and yet not close enough.

A lump catches in my throat, shame mixing with the lingering fire of my own betrayal. Part of me has been waiting for him to come back again. Another part of me has been dreading it, to the point that I’ve moved Furrcules’ cat bed to the foot of my own.

Rodion belches loudly, grinning from ear to ear as he lifts his empty glass.

“To Katarina,” he announces loudly, his glass raised high, swaying in his unsteady hand. “The hottest woman in Tokyo, and my future wife.”

My stomach tightens and his father Sergey shifts awkwardly beside him, offering a strained chuckle that does little to mask his discomfort. Nina’s gaze flicks to me again, her expression unreadable, though the look in her eyes speaks volumes.

“How very flattering,” I sign, my face neutral. “I can’t wait to shove you over the first balcony we walk past, you disgusting troll.”

My father shoots me a look, even though neither Rodion nor his father understands a single word of sign language.

“Ms. Osipova,” Sergey says with a slight chuckle, turning to Nina. “Would you mind translating for us?”

“Yes, please do, Nina,” I sign, a large smile on my face. “Don’t leave out a single thing?—”

“Katarina,” Papa growls quietly, another warning look on his face before he turns to Sergey. “My daughter was just saying she looks forward to bridging the gap between our two families and seeing how far we can take this partnership.”

“Very well…ahh…said,” Sergey smiles. “Very well indeed, Ms. Ishida.”

I take a large gulp of wine. Nina taps my thigh. I glance over to see her signing “I’ll be on the lookout for balconies” under the table.

Thisis why we’re best friends.

Technically speaking, Nina is a hostage of my father’s. The Bratva—and the Yakuza too—both tend to draw inspiration from both medieval times andGame of Thrones. And one of their customs is the idea of taking a “ward”, AKA, a hostage.

Nina’s father, Mitya Osopov, was once an ally of my father's…until Mitya double-crossed him, trying both to steal his distribution network and put a bullet in Kolya's head on a trip back to Russia.

Obviously, he failed to do either.

Mitya then immediately bent the knee, groveling and begging for forgiveness. Now, normally, given my father’s bloody and brutal history, neither of those things would have done a damn thing to move the imaginary needle to save the fucker. But in this rarecase, for some reason, Papa found a shred of forgiveness inside him anddidspare Mitya.

Spared his life, at least. Hedidtake the majority of his empire, his standing within any Bratva circle on Earth, and his daughter, Nina.

This was about eleven years ago, and Nina’s been with us ever since. I say “hostage” mostly as a joke: at this point, she’s basically an Ishida. And in any case, even if she doesn’t really talk about her time "before", I know she has nothing nice to say about her family back in Russia.

We’re best friends, practically sisters, and joined at the hip most of the time. Which is good, because she’s also my translator when we’re around people who don’t sign.

“Will she ever talk?”

My eyes snap to Rodion as he dumps the rest of the wine from the bottle into his glass.

Papa clears his throat. Sergey winces.

In a way, I almost feel bad for the guy. Yes, by all accounts, he’s kind of a prick himself. But then I try to imagine having a walking, talking turd likeRodionas a son, and it’s impossible not to feel some sympathy for him.

Still…

“My apologies,” Sergey growls. “My son has had abit too much,” he hisses sharply, yanking the glass away from Rodion’s mouth and setting it sharply down on the table.

“It’s an honest question,” Rodion slurs. “I mean, Father,” he sighs, changing to Russian as he glances at Sergey, “what am I supposed to do? Fuck a mute who can’t even moan for my?—”

“Despite her condition,” my father says coldly, his voice sharp as his eyes stab into Rodion. “My daughter is fluent in Russian.” His eyes narrow. “As. Am. I.”

---