Page 79 of My Wedding Night Massacre

This is fucking laughable.

I’ve walked away from wars, from cities, from people who begged me not to leave. I don’t fixate. I don’t linger. I sure as hell don’t think about some girl I’ve never spoken to like she carved her name into my spine.

And yet—

My body doesn’t care about logic. It clocks her the way it clocks threats. The way it clocks opportunity. Immediate. Sharp. Unavoidable.

That’s dangerous.

The door closes. Three men wait inside—Viktor, my second. Sergei, the enforcer who's kept my territory clean while I was gone. And some kid I don't recognize, all eager eyes and cheap suit.

"Talk," I say.

Viktor pulls out his phone, swipes through photos. "They hit the container at midnight. Got away with about fifty kilos of product before our guys responded. No casualties on our side, two of theirs down."

I study the photos. Sloppy work. Rushed. The kind of play you make when you think someone's weak, when you want to see if they'll bite back.

"Dmitri knows I'm out?"

"Everyone knows you're out, boss." Sergei grins, showing gold teeth. He's built like a tank, with hands the size of dinner plates, and loyal as a dog. "Half the city's probably shitting themselves wondering what you're gonna do first."

The kid shifts his weight, trying not to stare. He can't be more than twenty-two. Baby face, nervous energy. The type who grew up on mafia movies and thinks this life is glamorous.

"Who's this?" I nod at him.

"Alexei Morozov," Viktor says. "Joined up about a year ago. Good with numbers, better with a gun. Wants to prove himself."

Alexei straightens, meets my eyes. There's fear there, but he's trying to hide it. Smart. "It's an honor, Mr. Santego. My father spoke highly of you before he—"

"Your father was Yuri Morozov?"

"Yes, sir."

Yuri. Dead three years now, caught in a shootout with the feds. Good man. Terrible poker player. I study his son, see hints of Yuri in the jaw, the eyes.

"Your father saved my life once," I say. "Took a bullet meant for me in '09. You need anything, you come to me. Understood?"

The kid's eyes go wide. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me yet. You're about to earn it." I turn back to Viktor. "Dmitri's warehouse on Fifth Street. We hit it tomorrow night. I want inventory, cash, and anyone stupid enough to be there when we arrive. Make it messy."

Viktor grins. "Like old times."

"Exactly like old times." I loosen my tie, feeling the club's heat pressing in. Seven years of stale air and concrete walls, and now I'm back in the world of noise and chaos and violence. It should feel like coming home.

Instead, I keep thinking about her.

The way she looked at me. Not afraid. Not calculating. Just... curious. Hungry. Like she saw something in me worth wanting.

When's the last time someone looked at me like that?

Before prison, sex was mechanical. A function, like eating or sleeping. I'd pick someone, use them, forget their face by morning. It wasn't about connection. It was about release, about scratching an itch so I could focus on what mattered.

The business. The family. The empire I was building.

In prison, there was nothing. Although some of the female wardens offered themselves generously, I wasn’t interested in any hide and fuck game. So I learned to live without it. Seven years of cold showers and colder nights, and I thought I'd killed that part of myself.

Thought I didn't need it anymore.