The Virgin Waitress Walked In On Chicago’s Most Feared Mafia Boss At His Weakest—And What She Offered Him Made His Enemies Regret Ever Touching Her

CHAPTER 5 – THE PRICE OF KEEPING HER ALIVE

Morning arrived without sunlight.

Smoke still drifted above the west wing of the Volkov estate. Police sirens echoed somewhere beyond the iron gates, but none of them came inside. They never did. Whatever had happened during the night would be handled behind walls the public never crossed.

Inside the library, converted into a temporary medical room, Damon Volkov had still not regained full consciousness.

The doctor checked his pulse for the third time.

"He's stable."

Kirill folded his arms.

"And?"

"And if he tears those stitches again, there won't be enough blood left to save him."

Across the room, Alina sat quietly with dried blood still staining the sleeves of her robe.

She had refused to leave.

No one had forced her to stay.

No one had asked her to.

She simply couldn't bring herself to walk away after watching a man nearly die protecting her.

Mrs. Petrova entered carrying a clean set of clothes.

"My dear," the older woman said gently, "you should wash up."

Alina nodded.

"I will."

But she didn't move.

Her eyes remained fixed on Damon.

An hour later, Kirill descended into the mansion's underground security room.

Half a dozen monitors replayed footage from every camera on the property.

One screen froze on a familiar image.

Alina carrying a breakfast tray.

Another showed her walking through the gardens.

Another captured her entering the service corridor.

Every clip had been copied.

Downloaded.

Someone inside the estate had accessed the surveillance system long before the attack.

Kirill's expression hardened.

"Find out who logged into Camera Network Three."

One technician swallowed.

"It was deleted."

"Recover it."

"It may take time."

Kirill leaned closer.

"You have one hour."

Meanwhile, upstairs, Alina finally stepped into the servants' quarters.

She had barely closed her bedroom door when she noticed it.

The wardrobe.

Its right-hand door stood slightly open.

She never left it that way.

A chill crept over her skin.

Slowly, she approached.

Inside, everything looked normal.

Her uniforms.

Her winter coat.

Her mother's knitted scarf.

Then she noticed the envelope.

Plain white.

No stamp.

No name.

Just resting neatly on the folded sweaters.

With trembling fingers, she opened it.

Inside was a single photograph.

Her.

Walking home from work weeks earlier.

Across the bottom, written in black ink—

WE FOUND YOU FIRST.

Her breathing caught.

The second item slipped from the envelope.

A small silver cross.

The one her mother had given her before she died.

The one Alina had lost nearly six months ago.

Someone hadn't stolen it.

Someone had taken it...

...and returned it.

To prove they had always been close enough.

A knock sounded behind her.

She spun around with a gasp.

Kirill stood in the doorway.

One look at her face was enough.

"What happened?"

Without speaking, she handed him the photograph.

His jaw tightened.

Then he saw the cross.

His expression changed completely.

"Don't touch anything else."

"What is this?"

Kirill carefully picked up the envelope using a handkerchief.

"This isn't a threat."

Alina stared at him.

"It isn't?"

"No."

His voice became frighteningly quiet.

"It's a message."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference..."

He looked directly into her eyes.

"...is that threats are meant to scare you."

He folded the photograph once.

"Messages are meant to tell you the game has already begun."

Downstairs, Damon finally opened his eyes.

The room was silent.

The first thing he noticed was the empty chair beside his bed.

His gaze swept the room.

"Where..."

The doctor stepped closer.

"You shouldn't talk."

"Alina."

The doctor sighed.

"She's fine."

Damon tried to sit up.

Pain exploded through his shoulder.

The doctor pushed him back immediately.

"If you move again, I'll tie you to this bed."

Damon ignored him.

"Where is she?"

Before anyone could answer, Kirill entered.

He carried the envelope.

Without a word, he placed the photograph into Damon's hand.

The room fell silent.

Damon looked at the image for several seconds.

Then at the silver cross.

Every trace of fatigue disappeared from his face.

Only cold remained.

"Roman."

Kirill nodded.

"He entered the game before we realized it."

"He was watching her."

"For months."

Damon closed his hand around the photograph until the paper crumpled.

"I was careless."

Kirill rarely disagreed with him.

This time he did.

"No."

Damon looked up.

Kirill continued.

"He wasn't watching her because you cared."

"He was watching her..."

"...to see if you ever would."

Those words lingered in the room.

The doctor quietly excused himself.

Even the guards stepped back.

For a long moment neither man spoke.

Finally Damon broke the silence.

"Prepare the convoy."

Kirill frowned.

"You're in no condition."

"I wasn't asking."

"You can't even walk across the room."

"I'll manage."

Kirill's patience finally snapped.

"You nearly died!"

"And if Roman reaches her before I do..."

Damon's gray eyes became as cold as winter steel.

"...then dying tonight will have been the least expensive mistake I make."

At that same moment, miles away in an abandoned warehouse on Chicago's riverfront, a man stood before a wall covered with photographs.

Every picture showed Alina.

Leaving work.

Buying groceries.

Laughing with her younger brother, Callum.

Sitting alone in church.

Walking through autumn leaves.

Watching the sunset from a bus stop.

Hundreds of moments.

Months of observation.

Roman Orlov slowly removed the newest photograph from his pocket.

It showed Damon collapsing into Alina's arms after the firefight.

He smiled.

"So..."

he murmured.

"I was right."

One of his men stepped forward.

"Boss?"

Roman pinned the photograph to the center of the wall.

At last, every piece fit together.

"I don't want Damon Volkov dead."

The man looked confused.

"You don't?"

Roman's smile widened.

"No."

"I want him alive."

He tapped the photograph of Alina with one finger.

"Alive..."

"...long enough to watch me take away the only thing that can still break him."

Across the city, completely unaware of the promise just made against her life, Alina stood at her bedroom window holding her mother's silver cross tightly in her hand.

Behind her, the bedroom door eased open.

She assumed it was Mrs. Petrova.

Without turning around, she whispered,

"I'm all right."

No one answered.