The drive to Vanessa's house was calmer than I expected. The city seemed strangely quiet that night, as if it were on pause, indifferent to the weight of the decisions I was carrying with me. The streets were lit by tall lampposts, and the reflection of the lights on the asphalt created an almost hypnotic effect as I drove, trying to organize my thoughts.
This time, I didn't need to let anyone know I had arrived. As soon as I approached the mansion's gate, one of the guards immediately recognized my car. He didn't ask for identification or question me—he simply gave a discreet signal and allowed me through. That alone said a lot. I was no longer just a visitor.
The guard probably informed Vanessa as soon as I passed through the gate, because when I parked in the same spot as last time, I saw her approaching in the rearview mirror. She walked with steady steps, calm and unhurried.
Tonight, Vanessa was dressed more casually than usual. No elegant dresses or formal clothes. She wore light, comfortable clothing, something that made it clear she was at home, in her own territory. That version of her felt more real, less guarded.
I got out of the car, and she came straight toward me.
"Hi."
She greeted me with a spontaneous hug. I returned it without hesitation, wrapping my arms around her body. To finish the gesture, I kissed the top of her head. The sweet scent of her shampoo filled my nose, bringing an unexpected sense of calm.
"Come on," she said, pulling back slightly. "My father is waiting."
We walked together through the mansion's corridors. The last time I had been there at night, that same path had sent chills down my spine. Everything felt heavy with tension, as if the house itself were watching my every step. Back then, I felt like I was stepping into a world far too dangerous for someone like me.
The tension was still there—but it was different. This time, I knew where I was standing.
We entered the office.
Vanessa's father, Artem, was sitting behind the desk, as if he had been waiting for me for some time. When he saw me, he lifted his gaze and gave a slight nod. We exchanged greetings, and I immediately noticed the change in atmosphere.
There was no hostility. No judgment.
There was familiarity.
By offering to help, I had likely been placed on the same side as him.
We got straight to the point.
I told them everything about my conversation with Henry. I explained that I hadn't managed to get concrete evidence that could be handed directly to the police—nothing that would guarantee immediate action against the Alberts. Still, something more important than evidence had come from that meeting: a viable path forward.
A plan.
I explained that although there were no official records, Artem knew the truth. He knew about the Alberts' connections, their real intentions behind the forced marriage, and their plan to use his past ties with the Russian mafia as a bridge to expand drug trafficking into new markets.
My plan was simple in concept, but extremely risky in execution.
Artem would have to pretend to cooperate. Pretend he had given up. Pretend he accepted the inevitable. The duel with me would be used merely as a symbolic concession to appease Vanessa—a final gesture before surrendering.
Meanwhile, he would start acting behind her back, making it clear he didn't believe in my victory and needed to move forward on his own.
From there, he would reach out to old contacts, pretending to rekindle ties. He would ask to see the product, set a date, time, and location, and request a sample under the excuse of testing the quality for his connections.
But there was one essential detail.
Jonathan had to be present.
Artem would make it clear that he didn't trust intermediaries. If this was going to happen, it had to be face to face.
During that meeting, Henry and I would be hidden, gathering evidence. A single photo of Jonathan at the location would be enough to put the Albert family in a corner.
His brother, being the Minister of Immigration, would never allow the family name to be associated with drug trafficking. Artem's visa would simply be the price of silence.
When I finished explaining, silence took over the office.
"It's a good plan," Artem finally said. "But extremely difficult."
He was right. Everything had to go perfectly. His performance, Henry's cooperation, convincing Jonathan to show up in person… not to mention the real danger of entering a location that would almost certainly have armed security.
"But I'm in favor of it," Artem continued. "We don't have many options."
"I explained everything in broad strokes," I added. "I'll need a few days to organize the details and align everything with Henry."
"I had already given up," Artem said sincerely. "But you gave me a new reason to believe."
"I agree," Vanessa said firmly.
That was all I needed to hear.
"Even so, you need to train," Vanessa said soon after, crossing her arms and fixing me with a serious look. "I don't want to see you getting beaten in that duel."
There was genuine concern in her voice, something she tried to mask with firmness. She studied me as if calculating risks—not just my strength, but what could happen if everything went wrong.
"I don't need to train," I replied, flashing a confident, almost provocative smile. "I'm strong."
Vanessa raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. Before she could respond, Artem intervened, leaning his forearms on the desk.
"Then let's test that," he suggested, with a half-smile that mixed curiosity and challenge. "Spar with Dimitri."
I accepted without hesitation. There was no reason to back down now. If there was a moment to prove I wasn't just talking out of pride, this was it.
Shortly after, we headed to the mansion's training area. It was a large, well-lit space clearly designed for real combat. The floor was reinforced, the walls bore impact marks, and the air carried the unmistakable smell of metal, rubber, and dried sweat—the kind of place where people trained not for sport, but for survival.
Dimitri arrived soon after.
He was tall, broad, with shoulders that seemed almost too wide for his body. His face was marked by old scars, permanent reminders of fights that had clearly not been friendly. His gaze was calm, almost bored, like someone used to physical challenges and who neither underestimated nor overestimated opponents.
"I'll go easy on you, kid," he said, his thick Russian accent unmistakable as he rolled his shoulders to loosen up.
Artem gave the signal with a simple gesture of his hand.
The fight began.
Dimitri charged like a projectile. His body was low and angled forward, aiming directly at my legs. It was a calculated move, typical of someone who mastered close combat and knew exactly how to take an opponent to the ground.
I anticipated the move on instinct. I raised my knee and used the momentum of my other leg to attempt a direct strike, betting on speed and impact.
He blocked it.
With both hands.
That alone told me everything I needed to know.
When my hands came down on his back, it felt like punching reinforced concrete. No reaction. No imbalance. Nothing. Before I could retreat or change strategy, Dimitri grabbed my legs with brute strength and threw me backward as if I weighed nothing.
I used the momentum of the throw itself. I spun my body midair and landed on my feet, absorbing the impact with my knees and barely maintaining my balance.
I didn't waste time.
I advanced again and delivered a powerful kick to his back, putting my full weight into the strike. Dimitri only took a small step forward, as if he had been lightly pushed.
"Am I hitting a wall?" I couldn't help but comment, slightly out of breath.
He turned slowly, his eyes fixed on me now with a hint of interest that hadn't been there before.
Once again, he charged, trying to take me down. This time, I didn't attack. I waited. At the last second, I sidestepped, feeling the rush of displaced air pass far too close.
As I closed the distance, Dimitri changed tactics. Instead of trying to grab me, he threw a direct, fast, heavy punch. I dodged by mere centimeters. His fist brushed past my ear, and the force of the wind alone was enough to warn me—if that punch had landed, there wouldn't have been a second chance.
But that opening was all I needed.
I didn't aim for the face.
I aimed for the throat.
My fist struck cleanly.
For the first time, Dimitri showed pain. His face twisted, his eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and the air left his lungs. A rough sound escaped his throat as his esophagus contracted involuntarily.
I took advantage of that brief moment.
I moved quickly, twisting my body and striking the back of his knee with precision, breaking his base and forcing him to drop to his knees.
I prepared a kick.
But stopped just inches from his face.
Silence fell.
Dimitri slowly raised his hands, breathing hard, but with a clear look of acknowledgment in his eyes.
Defeat accepted.
I lowered my foot and extended my hand. He took it, and I helped him back to his feet.
"You're strong," he said, still catching his breath.
"You too," I replied.
Applause echoed through the space. Artem approached, clearly pleased.
"Excellent," he commented. "That reminded me a bit of my past. I never imagined you'd defeat Dimitri with such intelligence."
I looked at Vanessa. She seemed relieved, her shoulders less tense, her expression calmer. The worry she carried at the start of the fight had given way to something close to trust.
We returned to the office shortly after.
Artem opened a sealed bottle of vodka from his own company, as if celebrating something important. He poured three generous glasses. The drink was strong, but surprisingly smooth going down.
We toasted.
We talked.
We laughed.
Without realizing it, the bottle was empty.
And that was my last memory of the night.
…
I woke up with the worst headache I had ever experienced.
Every thought felt like a hammer pounding inside my skull. I opened my eyes with difficulty, staring at the ceiling above me. It wasn't the ceiling of my room. Nor Vanessa's.
But it was far too familiar.
I sat up slowly, my body feeling heavy, as if every muscle had been replaced with lead. My eyes scanned the room, trying to piece together the fragmented memories of the night before.
That was when I noticed the details.
"No way…"
On the floor, carelessly discarded, was a used condom.
Beside me, lying naked beneath the sheets, a woman slept peacefully. Her face was partially turned toward me, her hair spread across the pillow.
I recognized her immediately.
"How did I end up in Bianca's bed?"
…
Author's note: the next chapter is Bianca's POV.