Chapter 7: The Devil's Due
The city at night was a smear of neon and shadow beyond the limousine’s tinted windows. Luca drove, his eyes constantly moving between the road and the mirrors. The silence inside the car was a living thing, thick and charged. Viktor hadn’t spoken since they’d left the villa, his gaze fixed on the passing lights, his hands resting on his knees.They were perfectly still.
“He’s talking,” Luca said finally, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Admits he was the one who approached her at the tavern.Says it was just to scare her, a little pressure. He claims it was his own idea.”
Viktor didn’t turn. “He’s lying.”
“Probably.But he gave up his two cousins.The ones who tried to look like club security. They’re already in the basement on Via Torcicoda.”
A muscle ticked in Viktor’s jaw.“And the photographer?”
“Still looking. The boat was a rental from Sorrento, paid in cash. A dead end for now.”
“Not a dead end,” Viktor murmured, his voice low. “Just a longer path.”
They turned off the main boulevard, descending into the city’s underbelly. The sleek storefronts gave way to graffitied shutters and barred windows. Luca navigated into a nondescript service entrance, the limousine sinking into the throat of a multi-story parking garage. The air turned cold and damp, smelling of stale gasoline and wet concrete.The tires echoed like whispers in a cathedral.
Luca killed the headlights, navigating by the sickly glow of sporadic fluorescent tubes. Their light buzzed and flickered, casting jumping shadows over the forest of support columns. In the farthest corner, shrouded in deeper darkness, a shape resolved itself. A man knelt on the cold floor, his wrists bound behind him with zip-ties, a rough black hood pulled over his head. Two of Viktor’s men stood sentinel a few meters back, bulky and silent.
Luca pulled the limousine to a stop, its engine falling silent. The ensuing quiet was absolute, broken only by the drip of water somewhere in the distance and the ragged, muffled breathing of the kneeling man.Viktor opened his door. The sound was startlingly loud. He stepped out, the polished toe of his Oxford shoe landing in a small patch of oil that shone iridescent under the dim light. He didn’t look at the guards.He walked toward the kneeling figure, his footsteps measured and crisp on the concrete.
Luca got out too, following a pace behind, a shadow to Viktor’s substance.
Viktor stopped in front of the fisherman.He stood there for a long moment, looking down. Then he gave a single, slow nod.Luca moved forward.He grabbed the hood and yanked it off.
The man flinched, blinking wildly in the low light. His face was a mess of fresh bruising, one eye swollen shut. His good eye darted around, swimming in pure panic, before landing on Viktor’s shoes. He trembled, a full-body shudder that had nothing to do with the garage’s chill.Viktor crouched. He brought himself to the man’s eye level, his movements unhurried, almost gentle.The fisherman recoiled as if burned.
“Look at me,” Viktor said.His voice wasn’t loud. It was calm, flat, the sound of stone settling.
The fisherman’s good eye slowly, painfully, lifted to meet Viktor’s gray ones.“You spoke to my wife,” Viktor said.“In that little tavern. You smiled at her. You tried to frighten her.”
“Signore Volkov, per favore—” The words tumbled out, a wet, frantic slurry.“It was a mistake! A stupid thing! I was told just to… to see, to report what she did!”
“You sent a message,” Viktor continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Then your cousins watched her at my club.Then a car tried to kill her.” He tilted his head slightly. “You put her in a hospital bed.”
The man was crying now, tears cutting clean lines through the grime on his face.“I swear, I did not know!The car—that was not us! That was old man Fiorello!We are small!We just… we did what we were told! I am loyal! I can be loyal to you!”
Viktor listened, his expression one of detached interest.He watched the man plead, bargain, offer his life’s services. The desperation filled the space between the concrete pillars, a sour, metallic odor of sweat and fear overwhelming the smell of oil.Finally, Viktor stood up.He brushed an invisible piece of lint from his trousers. The fisherman whimpered, seeing the movement as a reprieve. He started babbling again, promises of information, of service.Viktor reached inside his tailored jacket. He withdrew a pistol, its suppressor already attached, a long, dark cylinder that made the weapon look clinical, like a tool. He chambered a round with a soft, precise click.
The fisherman’s stream of words choked off into a silent, open-mouthed gasp.
Viktor looked down at him, his face unreadable.“I believe you,” he said, his voice still that same, calm register. “But you see, I have a message to send back. And it needs to be clear.”
He raised the pistol.The fisherman squeezed his one good eye shut, his body rigid.
The shot was a muffled thump, a dry cough in the cavernous space. The man’s body jerked once, then slumped sideways to the concrete with a soft, final sound.
Viktor lowered his arm.He turned and handed the warm pistol to Luca, who took it without a word.
“Clean this up,” Viktor said, his eyes already scanning the dark corners of the garage as if checking for dust.“Send the body to the Fiorello warehouse in Castellammare. With my compliments.” He began walking back toward the limousine.“And find the man who took the photograph. The message isn’t complete.”
Luca watched him go, the cold weight of the pistol in his hand.He nodded to the two guards, who moved forward silently. He then turned and followed Viktor, his own shoes echoing a half-beat behind.
By the time Luca slipped back into the driver’s seat, Viktor was already settled in the back, his phone illuminated against his face. The soft blue light made the sharp planes of his cheeks look carved from ice.
Luca started the engine, the purr seeming obscenely loud. He pulled the car around, the headlights sweeping over the scene for a second. The two men were already lifting the loose-limbed form, a dark stain spreading on the concrete where a life had just ceased to be. Then they were driving away, back up the ramp toward the city lights.
In the back seat, Viktor’s phone rang twice before it was answered.“Hello?” Valentina’s voice was soft, tentative through the speaker.
Immediately, the atmosphere in the car shifted.The frozen tension melted from Viktor’s shoulders. A different kind of focus settled over his features.
“Malyshka,” he said, and his voice was transformed.It was warm, a gentle rumble. “Did I wake you?”
“No, no.I was just reading. Where are you?”
“Finishing up some work.” He looked out the window as Luca merged into the late-night traffic, the neon signs painting liquid color across the glass.“I’ll be home soon. Save me a glass of that Barolo, the one you like.The ’15.”
Her slight pause was barely perceptible.“Okay. I will.”
“Are you alright?” he asked, the concern in his tone seamless, authentic.
“Yes.Just… the house is quiet.”
“I know. I’ll be there shortly.” He closed his eyes for a second, leaning his head back against the seat. “Put the terrace heaters on. We’ll sit outside.”
“Okay, Viktor.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He ended the call. The screen went dark, plunging his side of the car back into shadow. He sat for a moment in the silence, the gentle vibrations of the road coming up through the seats.
“She’s afraid,” he said quietly, not to Luca, but to the darkness.Luca met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “She has reason to be.”
“She shouldn’t be,” Viktor said, his voice dropping back to its natural, cold timbre.The transition was seamless.“Fear is a tool. It should be in our hands, not in her heart.” He turned to look out the window again, at the passing city he controlled through a mosaic of fear and brutality.“We’re just getting started, Luca. Turn up the heat.”
Luca nodded, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. He drove on, leaving the concrete tomb behind, carrying them both back toward the gilded cage on the cliffside, where a woman waited with a glass of red wine, unknowingly clinging to the man who had just, with terrifying calm, signed a dozen more death warrants in her name.
He drove on, leaving the concrete tomb behind, carrying them both back toward the gilded cage on the cliffside, where a woman waited with a glass of red wine, unknowingly clinging to the man who had just, with terrifying calm, signed a dozen more death warrants in her name.
The city lights blurred past the window, a river of meaningless color. Viktor leaned back, closing his eyes, forcing the rigid tension from his shoulders. He inhaled slowly, held it, exhaled. The process was a ritual, a shedding of skin. By the time Luca eased the car through the villa’s iron gates, the man who had fired the pistol was receding. The man returning to his wife took his place.
Inside, the house was a symphony of quiet. Soft light pooled from recessed fixtures, illuminating the pristine surfaces. He could hear the gentle, distant rush of the sea. He shrugged off his jacket, catching his own reflection in a dark window—a stark, angular ghost superimposed over the night. He hung the jacket carefully, noticing a nearly invisible darker speck on the cuff. Not blood. Engine oil from the garage floor.
He rubbed at it with his thumb, his mouth a tight line.
He found her in their bedroom, seated at the elegant vanity. She hadn’t heard him come in. The only light came from the bulbs framing the mirror, haloing her in a warm glow. She was wearing a silk camisole the color of cream, her inky hair loose over her shoulders. Her gaze was fixed on her own reflection, but she wasn’t seeing her beauty.
Her fingertips were tracing the faint, yellowish-green shadows that still bloomed along her collarbone and the edge of her jaw. The bruises were fading, softer now, but their memory was etched in the careful path of her touch. On the vanity beside her sat two glasses of deep red wine, the bottle of Barolo open between them.
The scene stopped him in the doorway. It was a portrait of waiting, of quiet aftermath. Her absorption in her own injuries, the twin glasses—one for her, one for him—felt like an accusation and an invitation all at once.
He softened his footsteps, not wanting to startle her. “You should see the other car,” he said, his voice deliberately light.
She jumped, just a little, her hand dropping from her skin. Her eyes found his in the mirror. A smile touched her lips, but it didn’t reach the emerald depth of her gaze. “Very funny,” she murmured. She picked up one glass and swiveled on the stool to face him, holding it out. “You’re late.”
“I got held up.” He took the glass, letting his fingers brush hers. He sipped, the wine rich and complex on his tongue. “How was your day?”
“Quiet.” She took a larger sip from her own glass, looking at him over the rim. “Chiara called. She wanted to know if I wanted to go to a new gallery opening on Thursday.”
“And?”
“I said I wasn’t sure.”
He moved closer, standing behind her. In the mirror, their eyes met again. He placed his free hand on her bare shoulder, his thumb sweeping over the very edge of the discolored skin. He felt her shiver. “You should go,” he said. “It would be good for you.”
“Would it?” She held his reflected gaze. “It’s in the city. Crowded.”
His thumb stilled. He understood the unspoken question. “Luca will arrange a car. Two men, discreet. You won’t even notice them.”
She nodded slowly, turning back to the mirror. She set her wine down and picked up a hairbrush, drawing it through her long hair with slow, automatic strokes. “What held you up?” she asked, her tone casual, too casual.
“A tedious logistics issue.” The lie was ash in his mouth, sweetened by the wine. “A shipment was misrouted. It required… personal attention.”
She watched him in the glass, her brushstrokes never faltering. “Personal attention,” she repeated softly. She knew the textures of his lies, the way they felt different from his truths. This one was smooth and cold, like a river stone. She lowered the brush. “The house is too quiet at night now. I keep hearing things. The ice maker. The shutters.”
“I’m here now,” he said. He finished his wine and set the glass down. He gently took the brush from her hand and placed it on the vanity. His hands settled on her shoulders, kneading the tension he found there. “You’re safe, Valentina. Nothing will get through the gate. Nothing will get near you.”
She leaned back into his touch, her eyes closing. “It’s not the gate I’m worried about,” she whispered, almost to herself.
He bent, pressing his lips to the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—jasmine, always jasmine. He wanted to seal her in this moment, in this quiet, lamplit room, far from garages and whispered pleas. He wanted to burn the memory of the fisherman’s terrified eye out of his own mind with the feel of her skin under his hands.
Her hand came up, covering his where it rested on her shoulder. Her grip was tight, almost desperate. “Stay with me tonight,” she said, her voice small. “I mean… really stay. Don’t go to your study to make calls.”
The request was a lance through him. It was the first time she had ever asked him not to work. He looked at their entwined hands in the mirror, at the contrast—his, large and capable of such specific violence, hers, delicate and still marked by its consequence.
“All night,” he promised, the word a vow. He would have the phone brought to him. He would handle the world from the bedside.
He straightened up, offering her his hand. She took it, rising from the stool, letting him lead her toward the vast bed. As they passed his discarded jacket, slung over a chair, her eyes caught on the small, dark smear near the cuff. She paused, just for a heartbeat. She said nothing. She simply tightened her hold on his hand and let him guide her forward into the fragile sanctuary of their room, where the only sound was the distant sea and the two untouched wine glasses caught the light, waiting.
She simply tightened her hold on his hand and let him guide her forward into the fragile sanctuary of their room, where the only sound was the distant sea and the two untouched wine glasses caught the light, waiting.
He stopped her beside the bed, turning her to face him. His gaze traced the fading bruises, then dropped to the thin straps of her camisole. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was thick, needing to be torn.
“You smell like the city,” she whispered, her nose nearly touching his sternum. “Cigarette smoke. And cold concrete.”
He didn’t flinch. “It clings.”
Her hands came up to his shirt, fingers working the buttons slowly. Each one released a hint of that foreign, gritty scent. She pushed the fabric back over his shoulders, letting it fall. Her palms flattened against the hard plane of his chest, over scars old and white, mapping a history she never asked to read.
“I want you to make me forget,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Make me forget the car, the noise, the smell of the hospital. All of it.”
“I can do that,” he murmured, his hands sliding down to the swell of her hips.
He bent to capture her mouth, but she turned her head at the last second. His lips met her jaw, just below her ear. It was a tiny rejection, a flinch. He froze. She felt the immense control it took for him not to grip her harder. She turned back, her eyes glistening. “Sorry. I’m just…”
“I know,” he breathed, and this kiss was softer, a question. She answered it, opening for him, her tongue meeting his with a sudden, hungry insistence. The taste of wine turned dark and urgent between them.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the bed. He broke the kiss to yank the cream-colored silk down her arms. It whispered to the floor. She stood before him in only lace panties, her skin glowing in the low light, the evidence of her injury a stark watercolor across her flesh. He looked his fill, his gray eyes devouring every curve and shadow, and the reverence in that look undid her more than any rough touch could.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growled, the obscenity tender from his lips. “It ruins me every time.”
He hooked his thumbs in the lace and peeled it down her thighs. She stepped out of it, unsteady. He laid her back on the cool linen sheets, following her down, covering her body with his. His weight was a comfort, an anchor. He kissed the hollow of her throat, the slope of her breast, his tongue circling a nipple until she arched off the bed with a sharp gasp.
“Viktor…”
He moved lower, his breath hot against her stomach. He hooked her legs over his broad shoulders, and his mouth found her cunt. He licked into her with a slow, deliberate thoroughness that had her fists clutching the sheets. He was merciless here, his tongue flat and firm, circling her clit before spearing deep inside her again. He was claiming her, rewriting the fear on her skin with a more primitive language.
“Please,” she begged, her hips lifting. “I need you. Now.”
He moved back up her body, his own need blatant, straining against his trousers. He freed himself, and she gasped, as she always did, at the sight of him. He was thick and heavy, the head flushed dark, veins prominent. He was massive, and the first time had been a shock of pain that melted into bewildering pleasure. It was always a negotiation.
He reached for the bedside drawer, fumbling for the bottle of oil. He poured a slick pool into his palm, warming it before stroking himself, his eyes locked on hers. The casual, familiar obscenity of the act made her wetter.
“Go slow,” she whispered, spreading her legs wider in invitation.
“I always try,” he said, his voice strained.
He guided himself to her entrance, the broad head nudging against her soaked folds. He pressed forward, just an inch. Her breath hitched; her inner muscles clenched instinctively, resisting the intrusion. A low, pained whimper escaped her lips. He stilled, his whole body vibrating with the effort.
“Relax, malyshka. Let me in.” He kissed her, swallowing her small sounds. He pushed again, another relentless, gradual inch. The stretch was exquisite, bordering on too much. She cried out against his mouth, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers. He was sheathed only halfway, and the strain showed in the corded tendons of his neck. “You have to take it all. Come on. Open for me.”
He dragged his hips back, then thrust forward, gaining a little more ground. The pain splintered, bright and sharp. She bit her lip hard, tasting copper. Her body burned, stretching to accommodate him. He rocked, shallow and persistent, each movement coaxing her flesh to yield.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his breath hot on her cheek. “Just like that. Take your husband’s cock.”
With a final, surrendering sob, her body unlocked. He slid home, hilt-deep, a perfect, impossible fit. The pain melted, transforming into a shocking, full pleasure that stole the air from her lungs. She gasped, her eyes flying open to find his. He looked wrecked, consumed.
“Christ,” he uttered, buried inside her to the root. He didn’t move, letting her adjust to the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled.
Then he began to move. He started slow, dragging his cock almost all the way out before pushing back in with that same relentless pressure. The sound was filthy, wet and intimate. Her whimpers turned into low, continuous moans. He fucked her with a controlled, deep rhythm, each thrust hitting a spot that made her see stars.
“Is this what you needed?” he gritted out, his pace increasing. “My cock driving everything else out of that pretty head?”
“Yes,” she keened, her legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper. “Harder. Please, Viktor, fuck me harder.”
He obliged, his control snapping. His thrusts became brutal, pounding, the bedframe slamming against the wall in a steady, frantic rhythm. The force of it jolted her up the bed; he hooked an arm under her hip, angling her to take him even deeper. The slap of skin on skin, their ragged breaths, her sharp cries—it was a violent, beautiful cacophony.
“You’re mine,” he grunted, pistoning into her. “Every part of you. This cunt is mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she chanted, lost in the sensation. “Only yours. God, don’t stop.”
He could feel her tightening around him, her internal flutters signaling her climax. He drove into her, unrelenting, chasing his own. Her orgasm ripped through her with a silent scream, her body seizing, clenching around him like a vise. The intense, rhythmic pulsing of her cunt tore his release from him. He shoved in one last, deep time, burying himself as he came with a raw, guttural shout, jetting his heat deep inside her.
He collapsed atop her, his weight crushing, essential. They were both slick with sweat, trembling. He stayed inside her, softening, for a long time. The only sound was their ragged breathing slowing, syncing.
He finally rolled, taking her with him, keeping her tucked against his side. He kissed her sweaty temple. Her fingers traced the old scar on his shoulder, a familiar route.
His phone, on the nightstand, buzzed. Once. Then again. A specific, insistent pattern.
He didn’t move for a full minute. Then, with a sigh that came from his bones, he disentangled himself from her limbs and sat up on the edge of the bed. He picked up the phone. The blue light illuminated the harsh lines of his profile, the sheen of sweat on his back.
“Yes?” he said into the phone, his voice returning to its flat, business tone.
He listened. Valentina watched the muscles in his back tighten. She pulled the sheet over herself, the sudden absence of his skin against hers feeling like a loss.
“Where?” he asked. A pause. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
He ended the call and stood, a silhouette of pure purpose against the window’s night. He began to dress, pulling on his discarded trousers, buttoning a fresh shirt with swift, efficient motions. The man from the bed was gone, folded away.
“The gallery on Thursday,” she said to his back, her voice small in the dark. “Maybe I won’t go.”
He finished with his shirt and turned to look at her. His expression was unreadable, a mask she couldn’t penetrate. “You’ll go,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for discussion. He leaned over, brushing his lips once against hers. “The world doesn’t stop. We don’t hide.”
He straightened, grabbed his jacket from the chair, and walked out without looking back. The door clicked shut softly behind him.
She lay in the warm indentation he’d left, the smell of their sex and his cold concrete scent mingling in the air. She heard the distant purr of the Mercedes engine starting, then fading down the drive.
She was alone again. The message had been received, and answered, in every possible way.