Page 22 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“You should have told me you were a virgin.”
The words came out harsher than I’d intended, edged with all the frustration and self-loathing I was trying to keep buried. She turned to look at me, and I saw something vulnerable flash across her features before she asked, “Would it have changed anything?”
I met her eyes for the first time since she’d called us a mistake, and for a moment I let her see past the walls. Let her see the man who would have worshipped every inch of her skin if he’d known what she was giving him. Who would have made it perfect instead of desperate. Who would have treated her first time like the sacred thing it was instead of using her body to try to forget his own pain.
“No,” I said quietly, because the truth was that nothing would have changed. I still would have taken what she offered. Still would have claimed her with the same consuming hunger. Still would have fallen deeper into something I had no right to feel.
“It wouldn’t have.”
She nodded and got out of the car, closing the door with careful control. I didn’t watch her walk to her front door, didn’t wait to see her safely inside. Just pulled out of the driveway and drove toward the only place that made sense anymore—the office, where violence had clear rules and emotions were liabilities that got people killed.
Drew was already there when I arrived, surrounded by photographs and surveillance footage, his usually immaculate appearance slightly rumpled, as if he’d been working all night. He looked up when I walked in, and something in my face must have warned him off any casual greetings.
“The attacker has a tattoo of Saint Michael slaying the devil,” he said without preamble, sliding a photograph acrossmy desk. “Right forearm, custom work. This isn’t some random street punk.”
I stared at the image—a grainy security photo of a man in dark clothing, his face partially obscured, but his ink clearly visible. Saint Michael, wings spread wide, driving a sword through the serpentine form of the devil. Ukrainian prison work, from the look of it. Kozak territory.
“How many people know my father’s schedule?” I asked, settling into my chair and pulling up surveillance files on my computer.
“Inner circle only. Maybe a dozen people total.” Drew moved to look over my shoulder as I scrolled through security footage. “Someone talked, or someone got careless.”
I spent the next several hours diving deep into digital trails—hacking logs, movement patterns, communication records. Anything that might tell me how the Kozaks had known exactly where my father would be and when. The work was methodical, precise, the kind of investigation that required complete focus.
It was exactly what I needed to keep from thinking about Trev’s voice on the phone. About Anya calling me a mistake. About the way my entire world had been rewritten in the space of a few hours.
The funeral was scheduled for late afternoon—a traditional Bratva affair with closed caskets and enough security to start a small war. I arrived early, dressed in the kind of black suit that was practically a uniform in our world, and took my position beside the ornate mahogany casket that held what was left of the only parent I’d ever really known.
They arrived together—a woman with graying auburn hair and eyes the same steel gray as mine, accompanied by a man who looked exactly like me except for the blue eyes that had always been his defining feature. Twenty-seven years older,carrying themselves with the confidence of people who’d built new lives in a new country, but unmistakably the family I’d mourned for most of my life.
Hannah—my mother—approached first, her face wet with tears and her arms reaching toward me like she expected some kind of emotional reunion. Behind her, Trev hung back slightly, his cop’s eyes scanning the crowd with the kind of professional awareness that marked him as law enforcement even in civilian clothes.
I stood perfectly still as she wrapped her arms around me, letting her hold me but not returning the embrace. Her hair smelled like vanilla and foreign shampoo, nothing like the floral scent I remembered from childhood. She felt smaller than my memories painted her, more fragile, like the years had worn her down to something breakable.
“My boy,” she whispered against my chest, her voice thick with accent and grief. “My beautiful boy. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry we left you.”
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. Every emotion I might have felt was locked behind walls that had taken decades to build, and I wasn’t about to tear them down in front of a crowd of people who would see any vulnerability as weakness.
When she finally pulled back, Trev stepped forward. For a moment, we just stared at each other—two men who shared everything except the experiences that had shaped them. He was broader than me, his shoulders carrying the weight of authority and Australian sun. Clean-shaven where I preferred stubble, his hair shorter, his hands unmarked by gloves or scars.
He looked like the man I might have become if the fire had never happened. If our family had stayed together. If I’d never learned that love was just another word for loss.
“Lev.” He extended a hand, formal and distant, like we were business acquaintances instead of twins who’d once shared dreams and secret languages.
I shook it briefly, feeling the calluses that spoke of different kinds of violence than the ones that marked my own hands. Then I turned back to the casket, dismissing them both with body language that was unmistakable.
The service passed in a blur of Russian prayers and carefully neutral eulogies. I stood like a statue beside my father’s casket, accepting condolences from men who’d worked with him, feared him, respected him. When it came time for the final viewing, I approached the open casket and pressed a kiss to his cold forehead—a gesture that was equal parts love and fury.
That’s when I saw it. A button on his coat that didn’t match the others—slightly more ornate, made of what looked like genuine gold instead of the standard brass. My father had always been paranoid about recording conversations, about having insurance against the people he dealt with. The button was small enough to hide a camera, sophisticated enough to store hours of footage.
Evidence. Proof. The kind of information that could turn the tide in a war that was just beginning.
I palmed it quickly, my movements hidden by the crowd of mourners pressing close to pay their respects. When I straightened, I saw Anya approaching through the throng of black-clad figures, her face pale but determined.
I turned and walked away before she could reach me.
Outside the chapel, I found Trev and Hannah standing by a black sedan, clearly waiting for direction. They looked lost, displaced, like tourists in a country where they didn’t speak the language.
“Stay at Dad’s mansion,” I told them, my voice carrying the kind of authority that didn’t invite argument. “There’s security, staff. Everything you need.”
