The buzz of the gala had barely started to fade in the distance as Anton moved swiftly through the crowd, his steps cold, calculated, as he walked to the edge of the room. The face he wore was one of perfect control—impassive. He was the heir of a mafia empire, a man who couldn't afford weakness, not now, not ever. But the truth was, he was shaken.
What the hell just happened?
He'd felt it—when she looked at him. That intense, piercing gaze that didn't shrink from him.
Nastya had seen through him, even if she didn't know it. In those brief moments, when she dared challenge his beliefs, she'd opened a door he hadn't been prepared to face.
Her words kept repeating in his head.
"Caring makes us human."
It was a truth he had buried deep, too deep to remember. To even believe. He was trained to believe emotion was a weakness. It had never been part of the deal. His father's voice rang in his ears, as it always did when he strayed too far from what was expected.
"You must be emotionless, Anton. Feel nothing. In this world, that's the only way to survive."
Anton felt his chest tighten, just slightly, at the thought of his father. The old man had never known love—had never shown any sign of softness. He had built his empire through force, through fear, and expected Anton to follow suit. His mother had been different. She had been the one who had shown him the rare kindness of affection—until she had died. That had been the end of softness in his world. Her death had solidified the path his father wanted for him. Emotionless.
And yet, in the briefest exchange with Nastya, everything he thought he knew felt fragile.
"I'm not like you. I don't know what it means to care."
Her words echoed. But they weren't a condemnation. They were a question. A challenge. And it unsettled him. Deep down, he was beginning to realize just how much he wanted to answer it.
He pressed his fingers against his temple, trying to push the thoughts away. The weight of the world that had always been on his shoulders, the need for control, the constant reminder that weakness wasn't allowed—all of that had returned in full force.
But then, he couldn't help himself. He remembered the look she'd given him when she asked him why he didn't walk away from his life—the life his father had designed for him.
"Why don't you just—walk away? Find something real."
Her eyes had held so much. It had been almost too much to bear. It was the first time someone had spoken to him like that. Like there was an option. Like he could choose a different path, one that didn't lead to endless bloodshed and the cold calculations of his family's empire.
Anton let out a short breath, pulling himself from his thoughts. The conversation was over. She was gone. He couldn't afford to let it linger.
And yet… he did.
What do you want from me, Nastya?
A part of him wanted to go after her. To find her again, to dig deeper into whatever it was that had made him feel… something. Something other than duty, power, and control. But another part of him—one that had been forged in the fires of his father's cruelty—warned him not to.
The life he lived wasn't meant for people like her. He wasn't meant to be like this. He couldn't let himself be vulnerable, especially not with someone who had no place in his world.
She doesn't belong in my world.
The words came like a whisper of self-preservation. Anton shook his head, as if to clear the thoughts. He needed to focus. There were things he had to take care of. The meeting with his associates couldn't wait.
But still, as he turned away and walked towards the exit, he couldn't shake the image of her face—the way she looked at him, so unflinching. It was almost like she had cracked the facade he'd built around himself. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
⸻
As he steps out into the night air, the chill biting at his skin, Anton feels the cold press of reality—of the life he's chosen. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, a question lingers:
What if she's right?
The black car was waiting at the curb.
No chauffeur in sight—he preferred it that way when things were serious. He slid into the back seat and pulled the door shut with a quiet thunk. The city lights blurred in the windows as the car pulled away from the gala.
He loosened the top button of his shirt, tugged at the stiff collar like it had started to choke him the second she walked away.
Get your mind off her.
The moment the door closed, the weight of his real life settled in again. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a slim burner phone—untraceable, encrypted, always hot. He tapped once. The line clicked.
"Report," he said.
A pause, then a voice answered. His consigliere, a man named Yasha, all gravel and nerves. Loyal, but always a little too eager.
"He's making his move through Odessa. Shipment leaves port in two nights. He's paying off one of our men to divert the cargo."
Anton's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched.
"Who?"
"The accountant. Borodin. He thinks you won't notice."
Of course he does.
Anton didn't flinch. He didn't curse. He didn't raise his voice. There was no need to. His silence was enough to make grown men sweat bullets.
"Where is he now?"
"Safehouse on Krestovsky Island."
Anton's fingers drummed once against his knee. Cold, methodical.
"Send someone to retrieve him. Quietly. I'll deal with him myself."
There was a pause on the line. Yasha exhaled like he'd been holding his breath.
"Understood."
Anton hung up without another word and leaned back in the seat. His eyes stared out at the window, though he wasn't really seeing the streets anymore.
The accountant had made a mistake. He'd tried to outmaneuver Anton in his own city. Worse, he'd done it by using Odessa—his mother's city, before the family pulled her away into the darkness of their empire. There were lines you didn't cross.
This wasn't just business. It was personal.
He remembered walking those Odessa docks with her when he was just a boy. She used to bring him ice cream from the market and talk about running away one day—leaving the family, starting over by the sea. Back when Anton still believed in stories like that.
She was the only person who ever believed I didn't have to become this.
But she was gone now.
And all he had was duty.
No room for emotion. No room for distraction. He would handle Borodin the way his father expected—clean, ruthless, final.
And yet… Nastya's voice returned to him, uninvited.
"Caring makes us human."
He shut his eyes for half a second, jaw tightening.
Shut it down. Now.
This wasn't about her. She was a mistake. A glitch in his system. Whatever he felt—whatever it was—it didn't matter.
Because in this world, there were only two types of men:
Those who ruled.
And those who were buried.