The Mafia Boss Froze When He Saw His Maid Wearing Another Man's Ring—Then Growled, “Take It Off.”

At ten o'clock that evening, Viktor left the penthouse.

He did not wear his Italian wool suits or his silk ties. He wore a heavy black tactical jacket, dark trousers, and leather boots. Accompanied by Nikolai and four heavily armed men from his elite inner guard, he stepped into the private elevator without looking back at Sasha once.

The penthouse felt vast, empty, and terrifyingly silent after the heavy double doors clicked shut.

Sasha stood in the center of the living room, her dark blue silk dress feeling like an iron weight against her skin. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the dark, wet streets of Chicago below. Somewhere out there, twenty miles to the west in the industrial sprawl of Cicero, a man’s life was ticking away in seconds.

She poured herself a glass of scotch from the bar—the same heavy amber liquor Viktor drank—and took a small, burning sip. It scorched her throat, doing nothing to warm the icy coldness settling deep inside her ribs.

She hated Derek. For five years, she had carried the physical and psychological scars of his violence. She had suffered nightmares of his voice, of the terrifying sound of her jaw cracking in that dimly lit hallway, of the months she spent drinking broth through a straw while he walked the streets completely unpunished.

Yet, the thought of Viktor Morozov executing him in cold blood filled her with a different kind of terror.

If Viktor killed Derek tonight, the fragile balance of their relationship would be shattered forever. She would no longer be a woman who had built her own independence; she would become the reason a man was murdered. She would be fully integrated into Viktor's dark, violent world—a world she had spent fourteen months observing from a safe, comfortable distance.

She sat down on the leather sofa, her eyes fixed on the antique clock resting on the mantelpiece.

10:30 PM.

11:00 PM.

11:45 PM.

Every tick of the second hand felt like a hammer striking an anvil. She tried to read. She tried to watch the news. She tried to pace the hardwood floors. Nothing worked. Her mind kept picturing a dimly lit mechanic shop in Cicero, heavy black boots kicking open a door, and the cold, unyielding flash of Viktor’s gun in the dark.

At 1:15 AM, the private elevator chimed.

Sasha stood up instantly, her glass of scotch slipping from her fingers and shattering against the hardwood floor, spilling dark liquor across the varnish. She didn't care. She turned toward the foyer, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.

The elevator doors slid open.

Nikolai stepped out first, his dark tactical coat slick with fresh rain, his face impassive. He stepped aside, holding the door.

Then Viktor stepped into the apartment.

He walked slowly, his heavy boots leaving damp prints on the white marble foyer. He carried no weapons in his hands. His black tactical jacket was zipped to his throat, slightly wet from the rain. His face was pale, his jaw set, his expression completely devoid of emotion.

He stopped in the foyer, his dark eyes locking onto Sasha standing near the shattered glass.

Sasha took a slow, hesitant step forward, her voice barely a whisper in the silent apartment.

"Is it done?"

Viktor did not answer immediately. He slowly unzipped his black tactical jacket, pulling it off his broad shoulders, and handed it to Nikolai without looking at him. Underneath, his black henley shirt was dry and clean. There was no blood on his clothes. There was no smell of gunpowder in the air.

Viktor gestured to Nikolai with a short nod of his head. Nikolai bowed slightly, stepped back into the elevator, and the doors closed, leaving Viktor and Sasha completely alone.

Viktor walked toward her, stepping carefully around the puddle of spilled scotch and shattered glass on the floor. He stopped three feet away from her, his presence immense, dark, and overwhelming.

"He is not dead," Viktor said quietly.

Sasha blinked, her breath catching in her throat. "What?"

Viktor reached into his trousers pocket, pulled out a heavy, off-white paper envelope sealed with a red wax stamp, and held it out toward her.

"He is currently sitting in the back of a federal transport van heading to a maximum-security detention facility in Indiana," Viktor said, his voice flat and precise. "He will stay there for the next fifteen years."

Sasha stared at the sealed envelope, her mind racing, utterly unable to process his words. "I don't understand... you didn't kill him?"

Viktor looked at her, a faint, dark shadow of a smile flickering at the corner of his lips.

"I am a businessman, Sasha," Viktor said softly. "Killing a cockroach like Derek would have been easy. It would have taken five seconds and a ten-cent bullet. But dead men do not suffer. Dead men do not remember."