Chapter 48: "You’re not even that pretty."
Aaron stood in front of the glass table, his large hands resting flat against the cold surface.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t look angry. His face was entirely smooth, his dark blue eyes as flat and lifeless as deep ocean water.
"Put Volkov on the phone," Aaron said softly.
A second later, the sound of heavy rustling came through the speaker, followed by the harsh, wheezing breathing of an old crime boss who had lived too long on old territory.
"Kazarov!" Volkov spat over the line, coughing roughly. "You think you can send your lapdogs to tell me how to run my docks? I helped build this alliance twenty years ago! I took blood for the Lotus before you were old enough to hold a knife! You take a blind girl from America and suddenly you think you own my land?"
Aaron listened quietly. He didn’t interrupt. He let the old man shout, let his angry words bleed out into the cold, quiet room until the line fell completely silent except for the sound of wind howling through the speaker.
"Volkov," Aaron said, his voice dropping into an eerily gentle, calm tone.
"What?" the old man growled.
"You have ten minutes to surrender your shipping keys to my men," Aaron said softly, as though he were offering a polite suggestion over tea. "If the keys are not in Pyotr’s hands by ten past five, your youngest son will not wake up tomorrow morning. By midnight, your entire family line will cease to exist within the borders of this country."
Silence stretched over the line.
"You... you wouldn’t," Volkov stammered, his confident rage instantly cracking into a tight, terrified squeak. "The alliance rules... "
"I am the alliance," Aaron cut him off quietly. "Ten minutes, Volkov. Don’t waste them talking."
Aaron reached down and tapped the screen, cutting the call off instantly.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t take a deep breath. He simply slid his hands back into his trousers pockets, his expression completely unchanged, as if he had just checked the local weather forecast.
Pyotr took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. "You know the other families are going to whine about this at the next assembly."
"Let them whine," Aaron said coldly. "They obey because they are afraid. The moment they stop being afraid, they become useless. Clean up Rostov by morning. I want the docks fully operational before Isabella wakes up tomorrow."
Pyotr chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Look at you. Ordering bloodbaths with one hand and checking nursery rhymes with the other. By the way, how is the little princess? The guys in the lower ranks are betting money on whether she’s going to last a month in this house."
Aaron’s eyes flicked sideways, locking onto Pyotr with a look so sharp and lethal that the older man immediately raised his hands in a lazy mock surrender.
"Just asking, boss," Pyotr grumbled, though a small, fond smirk played at the edge of his mouth. "The kids like her. Finn was practically drooling, and Freya... well we haven’t heard anything from her... which is a record."
Aaron’s face softened just a fraction, though his voice remained hard. "Has the ophthalmology team from Geneva confirmed their arrival?"
"They landed in Moscow an hour ago," Pyotr replied, tossing his spent cigarette into a metal tray. "They’ll be at the estate by nine tomorrow morning with all the portable scanning gear."
"Good," Aaron said, turning back toward the door. "No delays. If she wakes up and feels overwhelmed, clear the main floor. I don’t want twenty men stomping around while she’s trying to learn the halls."
He stepped back out into the corridor, leaving Pyotr shaking his head in quiet, amused disbelief.
Aaron Kazarov was a murderer, a tyrant who kept dozens of violent crime families tied to his leash through sheer, terrifying force.
He ordered executions without raising his voice and wiped out decades-old bloodlines over a broken agreement. He was a predator who lived in the shadows of power and gave no fucks about morals.
And yet, as he walked back toward the residential wing, his only immediate concern was whether the wooden floors were too cold for a blind girl’s bare feet.
Upstairs, in her new room, Isabella couldn’t sleep.
The bed was massive, soft, and wrapped in warm silk sheets, but her mind was too restless to sink into it. The quiet hum of the house called to her.
She slid off the edge of the mattress, her bare feet meeting the warm hardwood floor. She took a slow, deep breath, adjusting her light cardigan around her shoulders, and began to move.
’One, two, three, four steps to the nightstand.’
’Five, six, seven, eight steps to the heavy wooden door.’
She reached out, her fingers finding the cool brass handle. She pushed it open slowly, letting the quiet warmth of the hallway wash over her.
She stepped out into the corridor, keeping one hand lightly trailing along the smooth cedar wall. She turned right, counting her steps, listening to the subtle acoustics of the building.
She heard the faint, distant crackle of the fireplace downstairs, the soft rustle of wind against the heavy glass walls at the end of the hall, and the gentle, rhythmic ticking of a grand clock down in the living area.
This place wasn’t a prison. It was vast, wide, and strangely welcoming.
She walked down the long corridor, her sharp ears picking up every tiny detail... the way the floorboards felt under her soles, the change in air pressure as she passed wide open archways, the sweet scent of fresh roses sitting in tall vases near the window nooks.
She paused near a wide landing, her hand resting against a smooth stone pillar.
Suddenly, the air around her changed.
Isabella froze. Her head tilted slightly, her cloudy green eyes widening in the dim light.
She couldn’t hear any footsteps. There was no rustle of fabric, no sound of shoes clicking against the wood.
But her instinct... sharpened by years of living in total darkness... told her with absolute certainty that she was no longer alone.
Someone was standing right in front of her.
"Hello?" Isabella whispered, her voice trembling slightly in the quiet hall. "Is... is someone there?"
No answer came.
A quiet, slow presence stepped closer, moving so silently it was almost supernatural.
The faint smell of sweet berry tea and old paper drifted into Isabella’s space, accompanied by the low, rumbling purr of a very heavy cat.
Freya stopped two feet away from Isabella. She was holding Mr. Cheese against her chest, her dark curls tumbling over her face, her sharp hazel eyes assessing the small, pale girl standing before her.
Freya smirked slightly to herself, watching the way Isabella shifted her weight nervously, her hands reaching out into the empty air, completely helpless in the dark.
"You’re not even that pretty," Freya said flatly, her voice dry, slow, and completely brutal.
Isabella gasped softly, pulling her hand back as if she had been burned. "What?"
Freya scratched the cat behind its ear, letting out a small, unimpressed puff of air through her nose.
"I said you’re scrawny. And small. What exactly did Mishka see in you?"