Dominic

The study smelled of aged leather, polished mahogany, and the faint, clean smoke of Russian oak burning in the fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over thirty acres of dense, private forest. The mansion sat thirty-five minutes outside the city, isolated and heavily guarded. Exactly how I preferred it.

I sat behind the wide desk, reviewing financial documents under the glow of a single brass lamp. Two of my captains stood before me, hands clasped behind their backs, barely breathing.

“The shipment from the port was delayed by three days,” I said, my voice low and precise. “Three days during which rival groups could have moved in. Three days in which law enforcement could have taken interest.”

The older captain, Markov, swallowed. “Pakhan, the new supplier had issues with—”

I lifted my gaze slowly. The room grew colder.

“I did not ask for explanations,” I continued calmly. “I asked for results. Your team was responsible for logistics. The delay cost us momentum and exposed a weakness. Weakness invites predators.”

The younger man shifted his weight. A mistake.

I set the report down with deliberate care. “From now on, every container will be cleared within twenty-four hours of arrival. If that does not happen, I will assume you are no longer capable of your positions. Do I make myself clear?”

Both men answered at once. “Yes, Pakhan.”

“Good. Now get out.”

They left without another word. The heavy oak door closed with a soft, expensive click, sealing the study in perfect silence once again.

I leaned back in the chair and picked up the crystal glass of whiskey. The liquid was smooth, aged twenty-four years, and burned cleanly. Discipline. Precision. These were the only languages power respected. Emotions were liabilities. Hesitation was death.

And yet…

For two days now, my mind had returned — with irritating persistence — to a quiet, trembling girl who had no place in my world.

Jasmine.

A soft-spoken student who had looked at me like I might be the answer to a question she was afraid to ask. The memory of her racing pulse beneath my fingers refused to fade.

It unsettled me.

I was not a man who allowed distractions. Especially not gentle, wide-eyed ones who carried far too much weight on their narrow shoulders.

A firm knock sounded.

“Come in.”

Nikolai entered, broad and imposing in his black suit. He stopped exactly three paces from the desk, tablet in hand. His sharp blue eyes were unusually tense.

“Her name is Jasmine Lin,” he began without greeting. “Twenty. Second-year nursing student. Lives with her parents in a quiet residential area on the east side.”

He placed a tablet on the desk. I picked it up and began scrolling through the file in silence. Then my eyes paused on a single line near the bottom.

Father: Detective Daniel Wei Lin. Senior Detective, Organized Crime Unit.

The fire crackled softly in the background. I remained perfectly still. So, the gentle, exhausted girl who had admitted she was tired of holding everything together was the daughter of the man who was obsessively trying to build a case against my organization.

Nikolai’s jaw flexed. “This is a problem.”

I leaned back in my chair, studying him. “Is it, Kolya?”

“She’s the daughter of the man who’s been trying to bury us for four years,” Nikolai said, voice low and urgent. “This isn’t a coincidence I’m comfortable with. She could be an accidental security risk. Worse, she could be bait. Or her father could be using her without her even knowing.”

He took a half-step forward, something he rarely did.

“At minimum, she should be removed from your attention. Completely.”

I set the tablet down with measured calm and took another sip of whiskey. The liquid slid down my throat like liquid ice. Kolya was right. Logically. Tactically. Any other time, I would have agreed with him instantly. But I didn’t.

I stared at the photograph on the tablet. Jasmine was walking out of the university library, looking distracted, her fingers absently brushing her wrist. She was still wearing the bracelet. A faint, cold smile touched the corner of my mouth.

“Continue surveillance. Discreetly. I want daily reports. Where she goes. Who she speaks to. Her state of mind.”

Nikolai’s scar tightened along his jaw. “Dom… you’re compromised on this one. I’ve never seen you like this over a woman. Especially not one who could destroy everything we’ve built.”

The word compromised hung in the air between us. I met his eyes, letting the full weight of my authority settle.

“She is not to be touched,” I said, voice dangerously soft. “And if she returns to The Crimson Veil, it will be because she chooses to.”

Nikolai stared at me for a long second, clearly unhappy, but he knew that tone. The conversation was over.

“As you wish, Pakhan.”

He turned and left the study without another word.

Alone once more, I stared at the photograph of Jasmine on the tablet — her fingers absently touching her wrist.

A detective’s daughter.

I should cut this fascination immediately. Instead, I felt the rarest of things.

Possession.

And that unsettled me more than anything else.