Page 29 of Black Ledger

Unfortunately, I only got to play with them once a week, but I got to see Xeniya every day.

And there, my obsession grew.

Mommy said I would grow out of it, but I would never grow out of my obsession with Xeniya Morozova.

And I never wanted to.

Age 10

Xeniya Morozova was not obsessed with me. She never looked at me or spoke to me unless I made her.

But she was still my best friend, and I thought I was hers, too.

Age 14

I still hadn’t shaken my obsession with Xeniya. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Age 14

My father discovered my obsession with Xeniya. It was bad. He held a gun to her head and threatened to kill her unless Kaz, Ilya, Maks, and I killed someone in front of her.

Age 15

My father hated Xeniya and kept trying to get her killed in an “accident.” He forced her into a death cage and made her kill a man twice her size with her bare hands. She nearly died. It killed me to watch.

Age 15

My father punished me for getting a mediocre grade in English literature. He chained me in the basement and starved me for five days. Xeniya brought me food and water. My only friend who dared to intervene. When my father caught her, he held her down and branded my name into her stomach. Then he beat her nearly to death and left her unconscious body with me. I wanted to die.

Chapter Fifteen

Severin Volkov

Age 17

Nineteen Years

I’d never been more obsessed with a dress—or a color—in my entire life. Red silk. It clung to her curves like it had been painted onto her body, which was probably a cliché, but writing had never interested me much. I didn’t like school, either—especially not American schools, with their obsession with useless things like grammar and poetry.

The sex ed class was useful to a degree, and so was geography class, but it was so surface-level. What did it matter if I knew all the countries in Europe and most of their capitals? For fuck’s sake, how was that helpful? Teach me how terrain shapes warfare and power. Or, at the very least, teach me something about culture I could use to manipulate people later.

No, American schools were useless. My mafia education, on the other hand, was priceless. My father was barbaric in his practices, but at least he taught me something. I wasn’t even legal yet, and I could already outmaneuver half the Bratva.

But the one thing he desperately tried to beat out of me was my obsession with Xeniya.

Unfortunately for him, he would never succeed—especially not now, with her wearing that red cocktail dress at Roman Balinsky’s wedding reception. Looking like that… she made me understand why men started wars over women—why Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships.

Yes, I had read the Iliad. It wasn’t poetry. It was research.

And as I watched Xeniya in red, I understood Paris and why he had taken Helen and refused to return her.

Xeniya was my poison, and I would swallow every single drop willingly. I would kneel for her and slaughter anyone who stood in my way. I would burn the world to the ground. That was the fucking problem.

I couldn’t have her because my father would murder her before I even got the chance to taste her. We were star-crossed, but unlike Romeo, I wasn’t weak enough to let the love of my life die for me. I would find a way to have Xeniya and the Bratva.

One day.

Until then, the best way to keep her safe was to ignore her existence. I could not let the world know I wanted her.