Between Whispers and Tortures

Dominic's Point Of View

I was lying on Maggie's narrow bed, the sheet bunched up at my feet, still feeling the coolness of her skin mixed with the air, which carried a faint trace of the sweet perfume she always wore. The ceiling of the room looked like a blank canvas, but the silly smile on my face made it clear that my mind was far away, completely wrapped up in thoughts of Maggie. At that moment, there was no Russia, no mafia, no responsibilities.

There was only her.

The lightness Maggie brought was a perfect pause in the chaos I called life.

I heard a murmur behind the door, followed by what sounded like a failed attempt at a disguised swear word. I let out a low laugh. Maggie had this habit of making up words whenever she didn't want to swear for real. Adorable, like everything else about her. I turned my face in time to see her enter the room, her bare feet making a slight noise on the wooden floor. She was wearing a huge button-down shirt, clearly mine, that almost covered her legs. Her red hair was messy, falling in waves over her shoulders—even more so after the last hour we spent together. She was holding a tub of ice cream, her face lit up, as if the simple act of eating ice cream after... well, after us... was the perfect climax to the day.

"I brought dessert," she announced, walking around the bed before sitting down next to me, her back against the headboard.

She held the spoon out to me, but instead of taking it, I grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward me. Maggie let out a small cry, followed by a laugh that was quickly lost when I captured her mouth with mine. I kissed her intensely, still tasting the whole day on our lips. Maggie murmured my name in that way only she could.

"Dominic..."

It sounded like a warning and an acceptance at the same time. She laughed again, pulling away slightly, and gave me a gentle pat on the chest before lying down, resting her head on my stomach. With the ice cream tub in her hands, she began to scrape the surface, bringing a small spoonful to her mouth. I just watched her, the lazy smile still on my face. After a few seconds, she held the spoon out to me again. I opened my mouth and let her feed me. We stayed like that for a while, in silence. A comfortable, rare silence—the kind that only exists between two people who don't need to fill every second with words. Her breathing was calm, her body relaxed against mine. It was in that silence that I decided to break the spell.

"Maggie," I began, my voice low. "Have you ever thought about having a different life?"

She frowned and turned her face to look at me. Her brow furrowed slightly before that little smile appeared, typical of when she didn't know exactly where I was going with this.

"What do you mean?" she asked, curious.

I took the spoon from her hand and stole my own bite of ice cream, letting the sweet flavor spread before answering.

"I don't know... living somewhere else. Another reality. A life different from the one you have here in Las Vegas."

She was silent for a few seconds, her eyes locked on mine, clearly thinking, then she shrugged, simple, honest.

"No. I've never thought about it." She paused. "This life is all I know. Of course I'd like to improve it... but be someone else? Live somewhere else? I don't think so."

I nodded thoughtfully. Her words echoed in me in a strange way. I wished things were as simple for me as they were for her, so Maggie returned the question.

"What about you? Have you ever thought about having a different life?"

I ran my fingers through her red hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. I took a deep breath before answering, feeling my voice grow deeper.

"The life I lead... doesn't allow me to think about that." I paused. "I'm stuck with a destiny that was mapped out the day I was born."

She frowned, confused. Still, she didn't ask any questions. Maggie always kept the silent promise she made the day I kissed her for the first time: to respect my silences. She just nodded, offering an understanding smile—even without fully understanding.

"I think we were lucky to find each other," she said softly. "Because, from what it seems, our worlds are very different."

I smiled at her. A bitter but sincere smile.

"You have no idea how lucky we are..." I murmured, pulling her closer until her lips brushed mine. "Much more mine than yours, princess."

We kissed, and in that moment, I knew that no matter what the future held, the days I had with Maggie would be my escape, my respite, my refuge. I knew she couldn't be mine forever, but in that moment, all that mattered was the now, and how lucky I was that, for a brief moment, she was entirely mine.

I woke up with my heart pounding in my ribs, as if I had just run a marathon. Dreaming about Maggie always left me feeling this way—agitated, restless. For a while, I thought she would eventually settle into some quiet corner of my mind. But the dreams insisted on bringing her back to the surface, disrupting any illusion of control. It was always like that, something simple was enough — the smell of strawberries, the taste of ice cream — and there she was again. I got out of bed abruptly, frustration pushing me out of the sheets. I threw my underwear aside as I walked to the bathroom, my bare feet sliding across the cold floor. The need to get away from her, even if only for a few minutes, was urgent. I stepped into the shower stall and turned on the water, adjusting it to the coldest setting possible. The icy shock against my skin was immediate, sharp, effective. Cold showers had always been a ritual—a way to erase the impact Maggie had on me, to try to wash away that feeling of loss and desire mixed together. After a while, I left the bathroom.

I chose a navy blue suit, impeccable, well cut. Formal. It gave me back a sense of control—especially over what was going on inside my head. It was a small, almost futile attempt to reconcile myself with reality. An elegant suit of armor to hide the turmoil I carried inside.

As I adjusted my tie, I looked in the mirror and saw my reflection. The man staring back at me was a stark contrast to how I felt inside. There was the control, the impeccable facade of calm and competence. I focused on what was in front of me and on my reality—the one I couldn't run away from or hide from. I slowly descended the stairs of the Volkov mansion, the female laughter coming from the dining room cutting through the silence of the house, a sound that, in any other context, would be welcoming. For me, however, it was just a reminder of the theater I was about to face.

As I walked through the door, I was met by three figures I knew all too well: my mother, Irina Volkov; my little sister, Yulia; and, of course, Yelena. All three stood up immediately when they saw me. My eyebrows arched slightly.

“Always the ritual,” I thought.

My mother, with her usual stiff posture and authoritative tone, was the first to speak.

“Dominic, we were waiting for you for breakfast. Yelena came to discuss the preparations for the engagement dinner.”

I knew exactly what was coming. My eyes turned to Yelena—my future fiancée, the woman designated to be my wife. Her eyes sparkled with an excitement that seemed as forced to me as the fate they had imposed on us. Her smile was impeccable, her features delicate and meticulously polished. Everything about her screamed perfection—the perfection my mother and the rest of the mafia expected alongside the Boss. Yelena had been trained for this. To be the perfect wife of one of the organization's great men. And yet I felt absolutely nothing, no attraction, no admiration, just the emptiness of obligation. Her rehearsed smile and the seductive glances she cast when we were alone didn't move a single fiber of my being.

"Dominic," Yelena began, her voice soft but firm. "The dinner will be in a week and a half. We can't put off the preparations any longer. We want you to be worthy of your position."

My sister Yulia, always perceptive, stood beside me, and I noticed the subtle roll of her eyes as Yelena spoke. Yulia had never hidden her contempt for the woman everyone expected to become my wife. Now she made a visible effort to disguise it—especially after my mother forbade her from expressing her opinions. She would soon be twenty and would need to learn to be more restrained.

I looked at Yelena, then at my mother. I let out a mental sigh before responding, keeping my tone impassive.

"Thank you for waiting for breakfast, but the conversation with Yelena will have to wait for another time. I have an important appointment and don't want to be late."

Yelena's face fell slightly. My mother frowned immediately.

"Don't you have a few minutes for your future bride, Dominic? That sounds like a slight."

Inside, I wanted to roll my eyes like Yulia. Outwardly, I kept my expression unchanged.

“I’m sure you two can take care of the dinner details. I trust both your tastes.” I gave a subtle nod, ending the conversation. “I wish you all a good coffee.”

I turned without adding anything else, crossing the room until I reached the entrance hall. Yelena’s heels echoed behind me before I reached the door.

“Dominic,” she called.

I turned around.

“I thought maybe we could have dinner together tonight, since you’re so busy right now.”

I took a deep breath, feeling irritation begin to rise.

“I don’t know what time I’ll be back. It might be too late for dinner.”

She sighed softly and took another step forward. Her hand moved up to my tie, playing with the fabric as if that would be enough to break my resistance.

"We're engaged, Dominic. It's important that we spend time together before the wedding. We need to get closer."

My patience ran out.

I took her hand and pulled it away from my tie, taking a step back. My gaze became firm as I replied, my voice laden with a sharp tone.

"I have important things to take care of. Dinners are not a priority. Don't worry about closeness. The position of wife is already yours, and no one can take it away from you. We'll have a lifetime for that." She stared at me, her eyes still shining, now confused—perhaps hurt, I didn't care.

I turned again and left. My driver was already by the car, opening the door. I got in without hesitation, and the vehicle immediately began to move. As the Volkov mansion disappeared in the rearview mirror, I mentally prepared myself to be what I was born to be.

The boss of the Russian mafia.

The dim light from the basement flickered over the dirty concrete walls. The smell of rust and fresh blood permeated the air, thick, almost palpable.

I sat in a worn leather chair—a relic of more civilized times—while Luca DeGrassi, underboss of the Cosa Nostra, hung in front of me, bound, bloodied, his hands secured by heavy chains. He was there to give me answers, whether he wanted to or not. I watched him for a moment, absorbing the tension in the room. The look he gave me was a mixture of hatred and defiance, but behind it there was fear. Luca knew this was no ordinary interrogation, not when it came to regaining lost territory, and not when he was the man responsible for the death of Sergei—my father's right-hand man.

"Let's get this over with, Dominic," he spat, his voice hoarse. "Do you think torture will change anything? I'm not going to give you anything."

I smiled. A cold smile that didn't reach my eyes.

"Ah, Luca... you still don't understand, do you?" My voice echoed through the empty space. "This isn't about whether you're going to talk. It's about when."

I stood up and walked slowly toward him. My footsteps echoed on the concrete in a predatory rhythm. The chains rattled as he tried to move, but there was nowhere to go. Fear was beginning to seep into his bones.

"Did you really think you could expand your family's territory into my space, take my business, and kill Sergei without consequences?" My voice was low, laden with restrained hatred. "I'm not my father, Luca. I don't forgive... and I don't forget."

Luca laughed, but the sound came out weak, forced. Sweat ran down his face, mixing with the blood that stained his white shirt.

"Old Volkov was smarter. He knew that a war between our families would be suicide. But you, Dominic? You've always been an impetuous child. Killing men just to prove your power, your father would be ashamed."

The mention of my father was like a knife to the chest. I stopped. I clenched my fists and stared directly at Luca.

"Don't talk about my father, DeGrassi. You have no right."

Fury burned inside me, but I turned it into control. Luca didn't deserve my anger—he deserved something worse. I picked up the knife on the table. The blade glinted in the dim light, steel forged especially for this kind of work. With one swift motion, I ripped his shirt open, exposing his sweaty, bloodstained skin.

"Now let's talk business," I said calmly, pressing the cold metal against his flesh. "You're going to tell me who's running Cosa Nostra operations in my old territories. What routes they're using for smuggling. And who their contacts are within the police."

He bit his lip, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"You're being too ambitious, Don. Too much information at once... It's not going to happen."

I sighed, twisting the knife slightly against his skin.

"Every man has a breaking point, Luca. And I'm willing to find out what yours is."

The blade descended, cutting into his flesh. The scream echoed through the basement, but he still didn't speak. The pain overwhelmed him, but his pride persisted—fragile, visible in his rapid breathing and involuntary spasms. The truce between the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra had ended the moment they broke the rules, tried to take what was ours, and in the process, killed someone important to the organization.

Someone important to me.

"Come on, Luca. How many men did you lose to get what you wanted? How many families are crying now because of your decisions?" My voice was icy. The blade sank in once more. His scream echoed again. "You stole my territory. You killed Sergei. Do you really think this will end well for you? You haven't eaten properly in a week... and now, with my visit, you're going to bleed more than your body can handle."

I was preparing for another incision when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Only someone like Pyotr would have the audacity to interrupt me in the middle of my work.

I turned slowly.

"What's going on?" I asked, my voice calm, though my gaze made it clear that any unnecessary interruption would have consequences.

Pyotr stopped on the top step, his eyes quickly scanning Luca, who was chained up and breathing heavily, then turned to me and held up his cell phone.

"You have a call that needs to be answered."

I frowned. Pyotr knew the protocol. I wiped my hands on the rag on the table and dropped the knife with a sharp sound, then picked up the phone.

"It's Dominic."

The voice on the other end was deep, laden with disdain.

"Dominic Volkov... you have something that belongs to me. I want it back."

I let out a short laugh, glancing at Luca.

“It’ll take more than a phone call to get what you want.”

Marco Degrassi, Capo of the Cosa Nostra, and the kind of negotiator you’d use every tactic you had to get what you wanted.

“I figured,” he replied, irritated. “That’s why I’m prepared to negotiate.”

My voice hardened.

“I have nothing to negotiate with you, Marco. I can take everything from Luca without your interference. A little blood always reminds me how alive I am.”

The silence on the other end was heavy, then Marco spoke again, his voice dangerously calm:

"That's where you're wrong, Dominic. You wouldn't be making this call if you didn't have something valuable."

My mind raced. My mother? Yulia? I swallowed hard, keeping my voice steady.

“What do you have that would make me trade a worm full of information like Luca?”

There was a brief pause, then Marco said, with disturbing calmness, leaving me speechless for a moment.

“We have your son, Dominic. Maybe that’s interesting enough.”