Page 13 of Toxic Attraction
She was hunting for something.
The bathroom footage shows her rifling through my things—drawers, cabinets, looking for something specific. An amateur job. Any professional would have known about the cameras, would have picked better targets. But she panics and hides behind the door like a fucking idiot.
Not trained. Just desperate.
Which makes her more dangerous, not less.
Whoever planted her here knows how to weaponize desperation.
I watch the rest of the encounter frame by frame. Her terror when I opened the shower door. The way she begged and sobbed and fell apart. Complete breakdown.
And then that moment.
I pause it, rewind, and watch it again.
One second of cold, flat defiance before the fear floods back in.
There you are, little viper.
My intercom buzzes. Mikhail.
"Boss. Sub-level three. We're ready."
The basement. Where Alexei Volkov is zip-tied to a chair, waiting to explain why he thought stealing two hundred thousand dollars from me was survivable.
"On my way."
I close the laptop and head downstairs, anticipation warming my chest.
This is the part I enjoy.
Sub-level three is accessed through the wine cellar—reinforced walls, soundproofing that could muffle a grenade, no windows. This is where I handle internal problems.
Tonight's problem used to be family.
Alexei sits in the center of the room, stripped to his underwear, already bruised from Mikhail's preliminary work. Blood trickles from his nose. When I enter, the fear in his eyes is immediate and satisfying.
"Lev—" His voice cracks. "Lev, please, there's been a mistake—"
"No mistake." I remove my jacket, hand it to Mikhail. Roll up my sleeves slowly, letting him watch. "We have video of you redirecting shipments. Bank records showing deposits. Three witnesses."
"They're lying! Someone's setting me up—"
I hit him hard enough to split his lip and send blood spattering across concrete. The sound of impact echoes off the walls, and satisfaction pulses through me.
"Who?"
"I don't know, but I swear—"
Another hit. His cheekbone cracks under my knuckles, and the feeling is better than whiskey, better than sex. This is what strength looks like. This is what happens when you're stupid enough to steal from me.
He's sobbing now, trying to talk through blood and broken teeth. "Please, we're family—"
"Family doesn't steal from family."
I spend the next thirty minutes breaking him piece by piece. Not in rage—I'm not angry. This is pure enjoyment. Watching someone realize begging won't save them. Watching the exact moment hope dies in their eyes.
My father taught me this when I was sixteen. Where to hit for maximum pain without causing unconsciousness. How to break ribs without puncturing lungs. The precise angle to dislocate a shoulder and make grown men scream like children.
