Page 118 of Filthy Little Fix
I lean back in the chair. It's too comfortable. My back doesn't even hurt. It must be a fortune. My fern, on the edge of the desk, is happy. I caress its leaves.I know, baby.Nicole didn't deserve to sink.
Dante would hate it if he knew. But he won't. He's not here. And I did it for myself.
I stare at the window. A dense forest. The feed from one of the thermal cameras shows heat signatures moving among the trees with assault rifles. Dante's invisible guards.
Dante.
If he leaves me alone for another week, I might think about transferring money to Chad too. That would be rock bottom.
The bed is too big for me.
I drag myself to it. The mattress is firm, the sheets are Egyptian cotton that must cost more than my old rent. I lie on one side. The other is untouched. Smooth. Empty. Saved for him.
I close my eyes. The darkness behind my eyelids is where I find him. Now, after the work is done, after closing the door to my old life, my body begins to remember.
My hand slides down, over the fabric of my sweatpants. It's hot. Heavy. Needy.
I see him. His hands, covered in blood, the way he destroyed that man for me. Out of possession. The image is so vivid I can smell blood and gunpowder in the air. I moan softly against the pillow.
My boy. His voice. The way he claimed me. The memory makes my dick throb harder. I move faster.
The friction of my hand is a pathetic comfort, a cheap imitation. I don't want my hand. I wanthis, still stained with another man's blood. Grabbing my hair hard enough to make my eyes water. Squeezing my throat until the world blacks out. I want him holding me, immobilizing me, using me as an object, just a tool for his pleasure, for his rage. I want to be the receptacle of all his darkness.
The thought pushes me to the limit. The memory of him, fucking me against the shower wall, the hot water, the steam, the pain...
"Dante," the name escapes unintentionally.
My body convulses. It's a spasm that doesn't last long. What's left is worse than before.
It's not enough. It's never enough without him.
I wonder how much longer he'll make me wait.
Three monitors displaya mosaic of information: encrypted communication feeds from the Malakovs, financial trackers, traffic cameras in Brighton Beach.
At 11:59, the room is in absolute silence.
At noon, I press Enter.
The "leak" package—the fabricated evidence, the fake emails, the transfer records—is anonymously delivered to Ivan Malakov's personal servers.
The first hour is silent. Ivan is reading. Processing. Believing.
Then, an alert on my financial monitor. One of Alexei's shell holdings suffers a hostile takeover attempt.
I watch, fascinated. I see the panic messages on Alexei's communication channels. I see confused orders being given. I see an alert on the local news about a "gas explosion" at a luxury restaurant in Brighton Beach—one of Alexei's favorites. I intercept an internal communication from Ivan's men bragging about taking over three betting houses. A police feed reports a car bomb at the address of a known Alexei lawyer. Alexei moves millions between accounts in the Cayman Islands. An anonymous tip leaks the location of one of Ivan's arsenals to the police.
I barely need to get my hands dirty. The Malakovs cannibalize each other.
The violent outburst in Brighton Beach only subsides by the end of the day. Their war will continue for weeks, but the threat to us has been effectively neutralized. Alexei is careful. He won't make efforts to avenge what happened in that warehouse while his own family is trying to cut his throat.
A notification flashes on my main monitor. An encrypted video call.Dmitry Volkov. I accept.
The screen splits. On one side, Dmitry, in his impeccable office, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a rare smile of satisfaction on his face. On the other, Svetlana, the image coming from a laptop camera, against the backdrop of a luxury hotel room somewhere in Europe. Her expression is, as always, indecipherable.
"Nyx. As you can see... your plan was an absolute success," Dmitry says. He raises his whiskey glass, toasting with a ghost. "More than we expected, to be honest."
Svetlana looks away from the screen. Surely reading reports. She says, "Ivan Malakov's infrastructure in Brighton Beach is collapsing. He's losing control of his docks. Alexei has moved eighty percent of his liquid assets out of the country. They'retoo focused on each other to worry about us for the foreseeable future."
