He poured two espressos, the steam curling between them like silent smoke. Tesmee accepted her cup, fingers brushing warm porcelain.
"I've never attended one of these councils," she said, steady-voiced, locking eyes with him. "Truth is, I don't know what happens in that room."
Tyric leaned forward, elbows on the desk, smirk slicing across his mouth.
"Think of it like any board meeting," he said coolly. "Territory. Revenue. Loyalty. Who's solid. Who's slipping."
He tapped the desk, sharp and deliberate. "Only twist? Every face around that table's armed. Men at their backs. Guns within reach."
She raised an eyebrow, lips curving. "Then I'll be more than a silent partner," she said, setting her espresso down with a click.
"I always arrive prepared—in mind, and in steel."
Tyric's smirk deepened, eyes glinting.
"Good," he murmured. "Because tonight, every misstep will be watched... and unforgiven."
She smirked back, slow and wicked.
"I'm no friend to men," she said, smooth as sin, "though I've tangled with one."
"That was a lucky man," Tyric said, stretching back with a lazy groan, dragging his hand over his neck.
A knowing glint danced in his eyes.
Tesmee cleared her throat lightly.
"I suppose he was," she said dryly. "Wouldn't say he still is."
She took a long, slow sip, eyes dark with old memories.
Tyric cocked an eyebrow, curiosity sparking hard.
"Why would you say that?"
Tesmee scoffed, a low, sharp sound.
"Because he stands as an enemy now."
"Mhh," Tyric hummed, eyes narrowing. "Who's he?"
She scoffed again, more bitter now.
"The one and only."
Tyric let out a rough chuckle, disbelief edging his tone.
"You're kidding. When the hell did that happen?"
"Nine years ago..." she said, voice dropping lower.
She paused, breath catching for a second, memory flashing behind her eyes.
"It was... amazing," she admitted, almost whispering. "I won't lie."
Her voice dipped further, dangerous and sweet:
"Sometimes when we trade that cold-eyed stare... my anger flares out of control. But somehow..."
She glanced away, jaw clenching.
"I've been softer on him than anyone else I've crushed."
She leaned back, steel flashing behind her faint smirk.
"And that night?"
She blew out a slow breath, smile darkening.
"It plays a big part in that."
♤>♡
He had her pinned against the window, New York lights raining down her back like shattered stars. His mouth hard and desperate against hers, hands dragging fire over her skin.
She fought him at first—sharp nails scraping down his arms—but he only laughed against her throat, low and raw, before catching her wrists and slamming them over her head.
The fight bled into something filthier. Clothes torn away, breath stolen, rage burned out between them in fast, wild collisions. She'd gasped his name like a curse and a prayer, nails biting his shoulders, his teeth marking her thighs, his growl deep and broken as he drove into her like a man who needed war more than peace.
♡<♤
She blinked, dragging herself back to the room, voice sharp again:
"Though I regret none of it."
Tyric sat forward, his expression cutting sharper.
"Tyson's not just any mistake," he said lowly. "He's the son of your family's destroyer."
His voice thinned to a blade.
"I get it—loving the wrong one. It never leaves you. Feeling it... or remembering it."
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head once.
"I've been there too."
He leaned back, eyes gone colder.
"Love's the cruelest thing we touch. We run from it, bleed for it... but it lives inside us anyway."
Jaw tightening, he added:
"Trust? That's the real enemy. Betrayal?"
He laughed once, dark and empty.
"That's the only thing that never lies."
Tesmee's face hardened, breath pushing past her lips.
"I buried it deep," she said coolly. "He's the enemy. Always has been."
Her eyes burned past him, past the walls.
"That night... he was just a perfect disaster.
One I didn't see coming."
She leaned forward, voice sliding into a whisper:
"And I wasn't aware… until it was too late."
"We had war," she smirked viciously, "just in sheets."
They spent the next hour tossing brutal memories between them like cards in a losing game.
Tyric opened old scars without flinching; Tesmee answered with her own jagged truths.
Between short laughs, bitter sighs, and sharp glances, they mapped out a world that had carved both of them in blood and loss.
When Tesmee rose to leave, her coat sliding over her shoulders, she was calm again—sharp and ready.
"Hey..." Tyric's voice caught her.
She glanced back over her shoulder, waiting.
"Spend a little time?" His voice was low, asking without asking.
He stood slowly, casual but wired underneath.
"My father, Eric... he'd like to see you. Last time he saw you... you were just a kid."
"I'm down for that," Tesmee said with a warm, easy smile.
Tyric gave a sharp nod and led her up the wide staircase to the glass-walled lounge.
The estate stretched out behind them like a sleeping beast.
Inside, Eric Volkov sat with heavy Russian grace, a cigar smoking between his fingers.
Beside him stood a striking woman—bobbed black hair, piercing eyes, thick Russian accent slicing through the low murmur.
When Tesmee stepped in, Eric froze. His cigar dipped slightly before he crushed it out.
The woman stiffened too, eyes widening.
Eric rose slowly, eyes locked to Tesmee like he was watching a ghost.
Angela Volkov—Tyric's mother—moved fast, throwing her arms around Tesmee in a fierce hug.
Tesmee stood stiff at first, blindsided, but returned the hug gently, flicking a questioning glance at Tyric.
He only watched, face unreadable.
Angela pulled back, smiling so warmly it almost hurt.
Then Eric stepped forward, placed a heavy arm over Tesmee's shoulders, and pulled her in.
It wasn't a greeting.
It was claiming.
He whispered close to her ear, low and firm:
"We are family now."
When he pulled back, a rare smile cracked his rough features.
But it wasn't enough.
Without warning, he pulled her in again—tighter, heavier—the second hug rough with everything words couldn't say.
Finally, Eric let her go, a ghost of something raw still lingering in the air.
Angela smiled quietly beside him, tears glinting sharp in her eyes.
Tyric, standing near the bar, poured himself a whiskey and tossed it back.
Stretching out lazily, he grinned and said,
"Guess I didn't need to introduce her after all."
Laughter sparked through the room, real and clean for once.
Stories slipped out after that—some light, some heavy.
For a rare few minutes, the mafia world outside disappeared.
But Tyric, whiskey burning in his veins, finally stood.
He placed his glass down with a soft clink.
"I'll excuse myself to take a shower," he said, voice low and loose.
"We've got a meeting soon. Better to let Tesmee prepare."
His gaze flicked meaningfully to his parents, then to Tesmee.
Business wasn't done yet.
She left after that, heading to the private penthouse Tyric had arranged—
far from the public mess of hotels, tucked safe behind Volkov walls.