Analise' POV
"I met him at the hospital. I was his nurse." I stared at the blood smeared across the marble floor, still warm. My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. "He was a John Doe. No ID, no family coming to claim him. Just another coma patient they didn't expect to wake up."
Mr. Sokolov cut into his steak, perfectly at ease with the murder still hanging in the air between us. "Go on."
"There's not much to tell. I was assigned to his room." I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "Six months, I took care of him. Changed his IV bags, turned him to prevent bed sores, talked to him even though they said he couldn't hear me."
"The tattoos," Sokolov said, setting down his knife. "My daughter mentioned something about tattoos."
I nodded. "All over his arms, his chest. Russian, I think. I'm not sure what they meant."
"Be specific," he said, his voice suddenly sharp. "What designs? What words?"
"An eagle on his right forearm. A knife wrapped in rope on his shoulder. Words across his collarbone I couldn't read. Something that looked like Saint Basil's Cathedral on his back."
Sokolov's expression didn't change, but I saw his finger tap once against his glass.
"Stars on his knees," I continued. "And a crown on his chest, right over his heart."
He nodded once, like I'd confirmed something.
"Then one day, he just... woke up." I still remembered that moment—his eyes opening, confusion giving way to panic. "No memory of who he was or how he ended up half-dead in our hospital."
"And you fell in love with this man?" Sokolov asked, his tone making it clear how stupid he thought I was.
"Not right away." I twisted my hands in my lap. "He stayed another month for recovery and tests. I kept being assigned to him. He was charming, even lost. Gentle. Made me laugh." I paused. "He needed a name, so the hospital kept calling him John Doe. When he was discharged, he kept it."
"And then?"
"We started dating. Four months later, we got married at the courthouse." I looked down at my bare ring finger. "He never remembered his past. Said maybe it was better that way."
"One year," Sokolov said. "You were married one year?"
I nodded. "Everything was good. Perfect, even. Then I found out I was pregnant." My voice cracked. "I came home from my shift to tell him. There was a note on the counter. And his wedding ring."
"What did it say?"
"Just... 'This was a mistake.' That was it. No explanation, no goodbye."
Sokolov took a long sip of his wine. "And when you looked for him after—property records, bank accounts, social security?"
"There was nothing. It's like he never existed."
He set down his glass. "The photographs?"
"None. I realized after he left that I'd never seen him in any of our pictures. He always insisted on being the one behind the camera." I let out a bitter laugh. "I didn't think anything of it at the time."
Sokolov was quiet for a long moment. Then he said something that caught me off guard.
"My mother raised me alone," he said, voice distant. "My father disappeared before I was born. Never sent money, never called, never acknowledged I existed."
I blinked, not sure how to respond.
"When I was sixteen, I found him." Sokolov's eyes turned colder. "Living with a new family, new wife, two children who had his name while I carried my mother's. I put a bullet between his eyes."
He said it like he was commenting on the weather.
"Your son," he continued. "Sofia tells me he's very sick."
I nodded, throat tight.
"A child shouldn't suffer for their father's cowardice." He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood. "I will find this John Doe of yours, not for you, but for the boy."
He snapped his fingers. The doors opened immediately, and a thin, nervous man with round glasses shuffled in. He carried a black portfolio case and kept his eyes on the floor.
"This is Elliot," Sokolov said. "On loan from Quantico. The FBI Director owes me certain favors."
The man's hands trembled as he opened his case.
"He's one of the bureau's best sketch artists," Sokolov continued. "With the right description, he can create an image as accurate as any photograph."
Elliot glanced at the blood on the floor, his face paling.
"Tell him everything you remember about your husband's face," Sokolov instructed me. "Every detail, no matter how small."
He headed for the door, then paused. "When you've finished, my men will escort you home. I'll contact you once I've tracked down this bastard."
His eyes met mine. "One way or another, your son will have what he needs."
The door closed behind him with a heavy thud, leaving me alone with the terrified artist and the ghost of a dead man's blood staining the floor between us.
Ivan's POV
Four days into this honeymoon, and all Sofia wanted to do was fuck. I didn't mind. She was my wife now, and if this made her happy, I'd give her this much.
The sheets were tangled around her ankles as she straddled me, her body slick with sweat, hair wild around her face. Her hips worked in tight circles, taking me deep with each movement.
"Fuck, you're so big," she gasped, her nails digging into my chest. "I can feel you everywhere."
I gripped her hips, guiding her movements. Her body was perfect—soft in all the right places, tight where it mattered. When I looked up at her, her eyes were half-closed, lips parted.
"You like that?" I asked, thrusting up into her.
"God, yes," she moaned. "Harder, please."
I flipped her onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head. She let out a small sound of surprise that turned into a moan as I drove back into her.
"Is this what you want?" I growled against her ear. "To be fucked like this every night?"
"Yes," she gasped, wrapping her legs around my waist. "I want you just like this. Every night. Forever."
I fucked her harder, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust. Her cunt clenched around me, milking my cock as she trembled beneath me.
"Give it to me," she begged, her voice breaking. "Please, Ivan, I need to feel you cum inside me."
Her words sent me over the edge. I buried myself to the hilt and came with a grunt, my body tensing as I emptied myself inside her.
After, when our breathing slowed, she traced patterns on my chest with her fingertips.
"You know," she said quietly, "I think we could grow to love each other, if we let ourselves."
I didn't answer.
"I'm glad my father didn't marry me off to some 70-year-old walking with a stick." She laughed softly. "You're handsome. Powerful. I know most women in our circle would kill to be in my place."
She shifted to look at me, her expression suddenly serious.
"I'll be loyal to you, Ivan. The perfect wife. I'll never embarrass you. I'll give you strong children. Everything you want."
I pulled away, grabbing my pants from the floor. I didn't want what she was offering. The affection, the sentimentality. I could do with just sex and a cold marriage, but nothing genuine. I couldn't love her the way she wanted me to, my heart belonged to Analise. Today, when I touched her, I struggled to get Analise out of my head. I thought about how beautiful Sofia was, her curves, her soft skin. But Analise has infected my mind. Two years and I still think of her every time I fuck a woman. Two years living like the ghost of a man who once loved a woman.
The balcony was cold, the night sky clear above me. I lit a cigar, letting the smoke fill my lungs before releasing it into the darkness.
Behind me, I heard the soft pad of her footsteps. She'd wrapped herself in a silk robe, her hair falling loose around her shoulders.
"Did I say something wrong?" she asked, her voice hesitant.
I took another drag of the cigar. "No."
She stepped closer, until she was standing beside me. The moonlight caught in her hair, turning it silver.
"Then what is it?"
I turned to face her, knowing what needed to be said. The words came out formal, rehearsed—the oath bratva men made to their women.
"I swear to you, Sofia Sokolova, that I will cherish you, protect you, and ensure you want for nothing. I will never embarrass you. You will be taken care of until the day I die."
She smiled, reaching for my hand.
But I wasn't finished.
"But I cannot promise you my heart," I said quietly. "Because I do not have it to give. It belongs to another."
Her smile faltered. For a moment, I thought she might cry or scream. Instead, she nodded slowly.
"I understand," she whispered. "Our marriage was never about love. It was duty. Family."
She reached up, taking my face in her hands. "Thank you for your honesty."
Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed me, soft and forgiving. When she pulled back, she took my hand and pressed her lips to my knuckles.
"Come back to bed," she said. "It's cold out here."
I followed her inside, knowing I'd given her what little truth I could afford. The rest—who Analise was, what she meant to me, how I'd left her—would stay buried.
For both our sakes.