Chapter Text
Xavier was pleasantly surprised when the woman left his office without slapping him across the face.
He wouldn’t have blamed her if she had, though. His dismissal had been just short of blatantly insulting; he certainly hadn’t complimented her appearance, or her qualifications, or her wedding ring, which she’d forgotten to remove before sitting down to talk with him.
Really, though, he’d shown restraint. He’d known his answer the moment he’d stepped through the doors, yet he’d humored her for all of fifteen minutes. Fifteen. And after the day he’d had, that sort of patience had to be on-par with God’s.
His first meeting had been at six-thirty that morning. His first interview, at seven. Throughout the rest of the day his men had seemed insistent upon allowing him no moment to rest, approaching him with their own issues and questions whenever they pleased: lunch. The two minutes between each interview. The elevator ride from the top floor to the bottom, a particular hell that had him debating if it would have been easier to haul himself from the roof. Then, of course, there was the four-minute aside with his family’s personal physician earlier that afternoon. All the man had done was confirm Xavier’s father was on death’s door before Xavier was pulled into another interview.
Fuck, he needed a drink. Or a bullet.
A breath of relief left his lips as he uncapped the bottle of vodka before him, but no sooner had he reached for a glass did his office door opened once more. “Xavier.”
He forsook the glass and took the whole bottle instead.
“How can I help you, Vanessa?”
His voice was short, clipped. He kept his shoulders tense, his back to the woman, even as her heels clicked with her approach.
“Another interview?” Vanessa said, her voice deceptively teasing. “Really, Xavier, why must you keep inconveniencing yourself like this?”
“You know as well as I that tradition requires it.” The alcohol burned his throat as it went down. “And the biggest inconvenience is Ivan letting you in.”
She let out a soft, practiced laugh. The sound used to send a jolt through his stomach; now bitterness replaced it.
“You can’t blame him, really,” she said. “He’s used to turning a blind eye when I’m here so late.”
There was not enough vodka in the bottle, he thought, swirling the liquid idly. “That was a long time ago.”
And it was. He hadn’t touched her like that in almost two years—and until his father had gotten sick, until it became clear that the Volkov empire would soon be Xavier’s, she hadn’t seemed to mind.
He finally turned to face her, his expression guarded. She was wearing less clothes than she usually did. Her blood-red dress hugged her curves down her calves, and the v-line at her neck dipped until only an inch or two above her belly button.
“There was a party tonight?” He did not try in the slightest to sound interested.
“There’s a party every night.” With a smirk, she took a step closer, almost pressing against him. “You’re simply too invested in these pointless interviews to attend.”
Xavier took a step back. Her perfume was too sweet, too suffocating. “They’re not pointless.”
“Of course they are.” She raised a perfectly-manicured brow and pushed her dark brown hair behind her shoulder. “I really don’t understand why you insist on looking for a wife when I’m right here.”
“You being right here is precisely why I’m still holding the interviews,” he muttered, reveling in the flash of irritation in her eyes. She quickly reigned it in, her lips curving into a smile as she stepped closer once more.
“Don’t be like that,” she murmured, lifting her hand to trace a finger along his jawline. “You know I’d be good—for you, for the Council, for the city.”
He gritted his teeth, shoving down the urge to wince under her touch. “Vanessa—”
“Think about it.” She brushed her hand down the side of his neck, now, a feather-light sensation that had his muscles tensing. “I’d already be Council approved. I know how your empire works.” Her eyes darkened. She added quietly, “I know how you work, too. I know you remember the fun we had.”
“That was before you slept with my father’s head of security,” he bit out.
“It was one night.” An easy shrug. “You can’t still be hung up on that.”
He reached for the bottle again, scoffing. “Get out.”
“No.”
His shoulders stiffened. He faced her fully, slowly, coldly, but Vanessa just rolled her eyes and smoothed down her dress. Made her expression match his own, as it so easily did.
“Oh, stop being so dramatic. You know as well as I that I’m the best option. Really, Xavier, you can’t be so foolish as to believe you’ll find a wife fitting the Volkov empire on the streets of this god-forsaken city.” Her practiced beauty disappeared beneath the sneer that twisted her lips. “Just because your father found a baker’s daughter doesn’t mean you will, too. And she was always too soft for our world, anyway.”
“Be careful,” he warned quietly, his voice trembling just a bit, “with what you say next.”
“You know it’s true.” Vanessa was unperturbed. “Your mother—she did better than anyone expected of her, I’ll give her that, but at the end of the day, Xavier, a common woman isn’t fit to handle this life. Or survive it.”
“Out.”
“Think about it.” She reached out once more, but instead of touching him again she only pulled the bottle of vodka from his hand and lifted it to her lips. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed and set the bottle back on the tray. Had he not been wearing gloves, his nails would have broken the skin of his palms. “I know you’ll come to your senses, love.”
With that, she sauntered out of the room, hips swaying in a way that used to have him transfixed. But he wasn’t looking; all he heard was the slam of the door behind her as he let out a long, steadying breath and rested his forehead against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. His eyes closed, blocking out the view of the city.
Just a moment. That was all he needed.
It was late, but sleep wouldn’t come for a while yet.
He still had to review tomorrow’s batch of applicants once Ronnie, his secretary, passed them along. Not that it would do much good, if the last woman had been any indication. He’d ignored the wedding ring, the shifting eyes and fidgeting hands, long enough to ask why she’d applied.
Even if she hadn’t said it, she had the same reasons everyone before her had. Money. Power. Fame. The fantastical notion of proving they were somehow better than the last.
God, choosing a wife was hell. He couldn’t remember a single one of their names through the pounding in his head.
A knock at his door had him straightening. Vanessa wouldn’t be back so soon, thankfully. Even she was not so persistent. Maybe it was Ronnie. He fixed his collar and forced his expression into one of neutrality.
“Enter.”
Two men stepped into the office. They were an infinite improvement from his last visitor.
“You look like hell,” Matteo Volkov drawled, grinning.
Xavier rolled his eyes, relaxing instantly and leaning back against the window. “What are you two idiots doing here?”
Dean Amato snorted, shutting the door behind him. “Don’t insult both of us. Mat’s the one who’s here for the alcohol.”
“Right you would be, brother.” Matteo clapped Xavier on the back even as he reached for a glass. Pouring himself a generous amount of whiskey, he smirked. “Saw Vanessa leaving,” he said innocently, and Xavier rolled his eyes. “That start up again?”
“I’d rather fuck a cactus than do that again. My question still stands.”
Dean sighed heavily, pouring himself a shot of rum. Xavier’s brow raised; Dean didn’t drink unless something was very, very wrong.
“We have news.”
“Oh?”
Matteo said bluntly, “A gang under our jurisdiction got into a pissing contest with the Black Wolves. One dead on either side.”
Xavier went still. Matteo and Dean were both watching him carefully, and he looked away, jaw clenched.
“No signs of Moretti pursuing retribution yet,” Dean said quietly.
“Bastard doesn’t have anything to pursue,” Xavier snapped. “Both sides lost a man.”
“You know damn well Moretti doesn’t work like that,” Matteo muttered, taking another long sip of his drink.
Xavier rubbed his temple between his fingers, his other hand wrapping around the bottle of vodka once more. He raised it only halfway before he saw the stain Vanessa’s dark lipstick had left around the mouth. He grimaced.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Dean said. “You can’t afford to be hung over tomorrow morning.”
Matteo raised a brow. “Last day of interviews?”
Xavier didn’t reply for a long moment. His eyes lingered on the vodka, torn between despising Vanessa all the more for ruining his night further and not giving a shit and downing the rest of it, anyway. Finally, he sighed and set the bottle down. “Second to last.”
“Have anyone in mind so far?”
They were both so careful right now, so annoying careful, as though just hearing the name Black Lizards would have him snapping like he’d snapped four years ago. And maybe he would soon, but right now their caution was just pissing him off more.
He faced the window again, pressing his lips together as he stared out at the vast city. Lights and buildings and worlds blurred into each other, waiting for his rule, his will. And Xavier was ready to wield them all.
But first, he needed a wife.
“No.”
Silence. The other two didn’t need to speak the words that hung heavy in the air between them, twisting and writhing and laughing as they pressed down on Xavier’s shoulders.
Time was running out. His father’s death would come soon, and he needed a girl sooner. He had only twenty-four hours from the time of Vaughn Volkov’s passing to announce his choice. Once that deadline passed, the decision turned over to the Council—led, of course, by Vanessa’s father.
The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
Xavier glanced up to see Dean looking at him hesitantly. “Say it.”
Dean gently set his shot glass back in the cart. “I’m not saying to stop the interviews,” he said slowly. “I’m just saying that maybe you should consider other options. Ones that won’t have the Council up in arms.”
“Anyone but Vanessa will have the Council up in arms,” Matteo pointed out.
“And I don’t need the Council’s approval yet, anyway,” Xavier said. “The only thing they can demand of me right now is this damn tradition.”
“True,” Dean agreed. “But I’m—we’re concerned that you’re expecting something… more from these interviews than you’ll get.”
Xavier stiffened. “I am expecting,” he said coldly, his expression bordering on dangerous, “nothing more than a wife who will stay out of my way and let me run my empire.”
Matteo raised a skeptical brow. “So why haven’t you found someone yet? You’ve met hundreds of women by now. Surely one of them—”
“You think it’s so simple? You think women don’t see power and wealth and don’t wish to be involved?”
Dean swore under his breath. “Then why won’t you pick—”
“Enough.”
His tone had sharped in a way it hardly ever did with them. They both fell silent.
“I will choose when I choose. I will choose who I choose, because as of yet, my father still lives. As of yet, the Council has no sway over my decision. I will do what’s best for the empire, not for them. They are demanding I uphold this tradition? So be it. But that is all they can demand of me right now, and I will do so as I see fit. Understood?”
Matteo was a stubborn bastard. “Xavier—”
“Understood?”
The two men exchanged a glance. With a sigh, they nodded.
“Good. Then you’re dismissed.”
Neither dared to protest further.
He scrubbed a hand over his face as they left, exhaustion tugging at him. When the door opened once more, when a quiet voice asked “Mr. Volkov?”, he sighed.
“I’ll review them in the morning, Ronnie,” he said without turning.
His usually compliant assistant hesitated behind him. “Sir,” she said, “I have a question about your… preferences.”
“Do as you have always done,” he said tiredly.
“But—well, one of them—”
“I trust your judgement.” He faced her finally. “I am done for the night.”
She chewed her lip. “Just one question, sir. Please.”
He ran a gloved hand through his hair. She was acting unusual, pushing more than she ever had, so he would handle just one question. “What.”
“I know you said only to cancel the applications of politicians,” Ronnie said, “but one of the ones we received for tomorrow—your last one, actually—I was wondering if you wanted to cancel—or I would suggest you do cancel—”
“Get to the point, Ronnie.” Her only flaw as an assistant: constant rambling. It was draining him quicker than usual right now.
“It’s just—” She frowned. “One of them seems to fit your preferred profile well enough, but—well—her job is… unconventional.”
“How so?”
Ronnie sighed. “She’s a whore, sir.”