Xavier :The tale of the broken

09.The attempt

The morning after was quiet. Too quiet.

She woke to the faint smell of Lydia's cooking, the soft hiss of the stovetop mingling with the distant hum of the city.

"Morning," she yawned, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Morning, my dear… Didn't you sleep well?" Lydia asked, voice gentle but probing.

"I hardly slept. Every sound woke me," she replied, picking at the blini with jam and sipping her coffee.

"Are you going to work today?"

"Yes, even if it's the weekend."

"If there's anything you need, call me."

"I will," she nodded, finishing breakfast before retreating for a bath.

She chose a loose floral dress, slipped on her glasses, and tied her hair into a casual bun. Files and laptop tucked under her arm, she ran through her usual morning checks, every instinct alert. Somewhere in the back of her mind, last night lingered — the envelope, the shadow, the hum of the city outside her windows.

Meanwhile, Xavier was already awake in his home office, sunlight barely cutting through the blinds.

Numbers blinked red across his screens. Funds disappearing. Information leaking. Another mole. Someone inside.

He leaned back, hands steepled, eyes narrowing. Reviewing footage from the office and her penthouse confirmed it all. Someone had been feeding their enemies intelligence. And now, after the last attack, the stakes were higher than ever.

"Who was assigned to look after her?" he asked.

"Malek," Zayne replied.

"Malek?"

"One of the most trusted men Pakhan ever put in a position like this. Always stationed by the door whenever sensitive information is discussed. Possibly bugged the place."

Xavier's lips pressed into a thin line.

"Then we set a trap. False information. A word about an ammunition package coming in. Nobody knows except me and you. And the girl… she'll go to the man afterward. She's tough enough to handle it."

"Where do we say it's coming from?"

"Milano to Sochi. That's the collection point. Everything else is misdirection."

Zayne nodded. "Understood."

"Good. Now, let's take a short break. Siberian food in Irkutsk. You need it; I need it."

By mid-afternoon, they arrived at Restoran Okhotnikov, a bustling spot tucked between snow-swept streets.

She kept her posture casual in white sneakers, beige trousers, and a long-sleeve shirt with a few buttons undone. Zayne chattered easily, filling the air with sound while she focused on the food: omul fish, pelmeni, rassolnik, posi, ukha. Drinks: kvass for him, kompot for her.

The warmth of the restaurant, the chatter of patrons, even the smell of smoked fish — for a brief moment, she allowed herself to relax.

Then it happened.

A faint shift at the edge of her vision. Instinct tightened in her chest.

Before she could identify the threat, a silenced pistol flashed toward her upper chest.

Time slowed.

She pivoted, twisting just in time — the bullet tore through her lower stomach instead, pain flaring in hot waves.

Zayne lunged beside her, closing in on the shooter. Together, they forced him into the narrow street alley, cornering him. Zayne slammed him against the wall.

"Are you okay, dude?" Zayne panted, voice tight.

"Yes," she said through gritted teeth, pressing her hands against the wound, already staining her shirt.

"Who sent you? Why?"

"I… I don't know," the man stammered. "Tall, black clothes, Italian accent… money… shoot you…" His words were fragmented.

"Did you see his face? The car? Anything else?"

"No… mask. Car… strong accent… Italian."

They let him go. For now, that wasn't the point.

Somebody wanted her dead. Again.

Later, the warehouse basement waited.

Malek knelt, restrained, silent.

Xavier rolled up his sleeves and picked up his weapons. Calm, controlled. Every strike measured. Every pain inflicted with intent.

"Who sent you?" he asked, voice cold.

Silence.

He struck again, fists precise. Still nothing.

"I'll cut your fingers off one by one if you don't talk," he said, tone almost casual.

Three fingers gone. A moment later, he switched tools, alternating shocks with water — every second lasted longer.

Finally, Malek spat blood, finally broke.

"Why…?" Xavier's voice remained calm.

"Because… you didn't earn it," Malek smirked devilishly.

"Who are you to say that?"

"They… want you dead. Quick way to earn a million…"

"And her?"

"She… spoiled brat… thinks she owns the place."

"Who sent you?"

"Capo Alexandra."

Xavier wiped his hands, signaling his men.

"Deal with him. Cut his tongue out. Amputate. Send it to your capo."

The city had not slept since the attack. Neither had he.

The penthouse still smelled faintly of gunpowder beneath the citrus diffuser. Windows replaced. Blood scrubbed from marble. Guards doubled.

But damage was never about what could be cleaned.

It was about what had been dared.

He stood barefoot at the floor-to-ceiling glass, watching the skyline glow beneath him. This city was supposed to kneel.

Someone had mistaken his silence for weakness.

Behind him, the doors opened.

"I didn't turn. Report."

"Shooter is dead. Cyanide capsule," Liam said steadily.

Of course. Professionals never expected to survive.

"Origin?"

"Unregistered weapon. But…" He hesitated.

Xavier finally looked at him.

"But?"

"The entry codes weren't forced. They were overridden."

Silence. Not breached. Invited.

A slow, precise anger settled into his bones. The kind that erased.

"Seal internal communications. No one leaves the city without my clearance. Audit every employee. Every guard. Every driver."

Liam nodded.

"And Liam?"

"Yes?"

"Start with the ones who look the most loyal."

Fear flickered in Liam's eyes. Good. Loyalty was loud. Betrayal was quiet.

Across town, she was unaware of the war tightening around her. Or maybe she felt it.

Office lights cast a soft glow on her face as she worked late again, stubborn, controlled, pretending nothing had changed since Xavier's grandfather's funeral.

She hadn't asked about the attack. She hadn't asked why security now followed her discreetly. She hated being protected. He admired that. It would not save her.

The boardroom felt different without his grandfather at the head. Older men sat straighter, calculating. Testing.

He took the seat without asking.

"Perhaps," Morozov began carefully, "we should consider temporary shared authority until matters stabilize."

Shared authority. A polite word for doubt.

Xavier folded his hands.

"Is the empire unstable?"

"No, but—"

"Did shipments stop?"

"No."

"Did revenue fall?"

"No."

"I lean forward slightly. "Then what exactly would we be stabilizing?"

Silence pressed heavy.

"There was an attack," Morozov whispered.

"Yes," Xavier said evenly. "And the man responsible is dead."

"He killed himself."

"Which means," Xavier said softly, "he was more afraid of his employer than me."

The room went still.

"And that," he continued, "is a problem I intend to correct."

No one spoke again. Power was not inherited. It was demonstrated.

Later, she watched him in the penthouse for the first time, seeing his violent side. Slightly shaken, she didn't think he had it in him.

"Yes," he said, answering her unspoken question about the leaks. He put his phone on loudspeaker, glancing at his wound.

"You should ask someone to look at that," she said, not the least surprised.

"That's none of your business. Don't bother yourself," he replied.

"Okay… I'll ask Zayne to call our family doctor."

"I don't need your help, Krasavitsa," he teased.

"Stop being stubborn. Zayne said it's a little bad, but not fatal. You lost blood, and stop calling me that," she said, slightly annoyed.

"It's not bad," he replied.

"If you die, they'll staple it onto my grandfather's legacy," she warned.

"Concern, Krasavitsa?" he raised an eyebrow.

"So you'll keep calling me that? Fine… Volkova," she relented.

"Avoid trouble for some days while I'm away. I suggest you come live here," he said.

"I'm not sure. Convince me why I should."

"Your safety is my priority… I can't leave for Italy knowing you're not safe."

Silence.

"You move in tomorrow," he said, hanging up.

After dressing his wound and taking a strong glass of Macallan single-malt, Xavier began his rare Sunday ritual: paperwork, calls, and a few hours of downtime.

He called his mother.

"Mother," he said once she answered.

"Sweetheart… how are you?"

"I'm fine. How's Lia?"

"Lia is doing great. Did you think about my offer?"

"Not yet. Your father still needs us."

"Hmm… I wanted to tell you I'm going to Italy for a few days, maybe a month."

"Okay, safe trip, son."

"Thank you, mother."

Finished, he went to his indoor gym to loosen up. By 7 a.m., he was done. Showered. Cleaned. Calling the tattoo artist next, a small indulgence before the coming storm.

For the first time in days, he let himself breathe. Just a little.