Extras Ch 13: Kazimir - The Monster in the Mirror
The Ferrante operation had been a disaster from the start.
Kazimir had led the interception personally—twelve men, three boats—under the cover of a moonless night. The intelligence Leo had gathered suggested the Ferrantes were moving contrabands through Genoa.
The intelligence was wrong.
They had walked into an ambush. Ten of his twelve men were dead before the second boat reached the dock. Kazimir had dragged the surviving two through the water himself, bullets chewing the pier behind them, and had spent the next six hours in a safe house waiting for extraction.
That was three nights ago. Kazimir had not slept since.
Now he sat at the dinner table, a crystal glass of whiskey sweating in his grip, while the girl who was supposed to be his wife perched on the edge of the chair beside him like a terrified bird.
"The wine, Kazimir," Dante said, swirling his glass, "Is from the Piedmont estate. Bold. It requires a certain fortitude to appreciate. Perhaps your wife prefers something sweeter?"
Piedmont.
The word hit Kazimir like a bullet. The province where he had lost ten men. Where the Ferrantes had ambushed his convoy and left his soldiers floating face-down in the harbor.
Dante knew. Of course he knew. He had probably known before Kazimir did.
"Her preferences are irrelevant," Kazimir said. The words came out cold.
He did not look up from his plate. If he did, he knew his composure would crack.
Dante’s voice didn't falter. "Nonsense! Valentina, cara. You remember how we welcome new members?"
Kazimir felt Valentina’s gaze linger on him briefly before she chuckled and spoke.
"Of course, Father. We welcome those who understand their place. A silent wife is a peaceful wife, I suppose. If one has a taste for decorative furniture."
Polite laughter skittered around the table.
Kazimir's grip tightened on his glass until the crystal threatened to crack. Decorative furniture. That was Valentina’s message for him to understand who the person sitting next to her really was: a girl who would only drag him down.
He felt the rage boil inside him. Ten men dead. The Ferrantes emboldened. His own soldiers laughing at Dante's jokes. And this girl—this silent, trembling girl—sitting beside him in his grandmother's dress, a living monument to his own powerlessness.
The dinner dragged on. Course after course. More wine. More barbs. Dante asked about the Genoa contact—the one who had gone silent—and Kazimir said they were handling it. Dante asked about the Ferrantes, and Kazimir said they were contained.
Then, satisfied, the sly man finally leaned back. "But enough of business! Go on, you newlyweds. Don't let an old man like me keep you from your privacy."
A dismissal. Finally.
Kazimir didn’t hesitate. He shoved his chair back and stood. His hand shot out and closed around Elena’s wrist. He pulled her to her feet, dragging her behind him.
He didn't slow down. His vision had narrowed to a single point: the bedroom door. The sanctuary where he could finally, finally unleash the fury that had been building since the Ferrante docks.
He kicked open the bedroom door and hauled her over the threshold before releasing her.
Kazimir stood in the darkness, his chest heaving, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The single lamp on the nightstand cast long shadows across the room. The girl pressed herself against the bedpost, her back to him.
"Turn around," he growled.
She obeyed, her back pressed to the bedpost.
He faced her. The controlled mask he had worn at dinner was gone—burned away by exhaustion and Dante's smug smile. What remained was raw, ugly—a monster he barely recognized.
"Well?" The word dripped venom. "Was it everything you hoped for?"
She shook her head frantically, her hands coming up in a flurry of signs. Kazimir didn’t understand them. He didn’t want to.
"All that attention." He took a step toward her. "All those eyes on you. Was it amusing? Performing for Dante?"
She shook her head again, harder. A tear broke free, carving a path through the powder on her cheek. Her hands came up in a pleading gesture.
Kazimir’s face darkened from fury to contempt. The pulse in his jaw jumped.
"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. "Don't cry. Don't you dare."
He closed the remaining distance in one stride. He planted one hand on the bedpost above her head, caging her. His other hand came up.
She flinched. Her eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the blow.
The flinch stopped him cold.
She thinks you're going to hit her.
His hand hovered in the air between them. He didn't hit her. Of course he wouldn't. But he couldn't stop either—the momentum of his rage was too great. His fingers closed around her chin instead, forcing her face toward his.
"Look at me," Kazimir growled. "Look at what your pathetic performance has done."
His face was inches from hers. Even in the dim moonlight, he could see the tears in her eyes. But he didn’t soften. He didn’t want to. She needed to know his frustration.
"You're a weapon he brought to use against me." He heard himself say. "A silent weapon. You sit there, in my house, eating my food, wearing my clothes, and you just sat there and let them laugh."
The words poured out of him, months of frustration and humiliation finding a target. He knew it was unfair. He knew she hadn’t chosen any of this. But who else was he supposed to rage at? Dante? Valentina? His own men?
She was here. She was convenient. And she was Dante’s weapon, which made her guilty by association.
His gaze burned into hers, searching for some confirmation that she was what he feared. Some justification for the cruelty he was pouring onto her. But she just stared up at him with terrified eyes. The absence of what he sought left him silent.
He broke eye contact first, his gaze dropping to his hand on her chin. His raw, swollen knuckles looked monstrous against her delicate features.
She followed his gaze. Her brow furrowed. And then her hand lifted, fingers uncurling and reaching toward his injured hand.
Not flinching away from the damage. Reaching for it.
Kazimir froze.
She’s afraid of me. She should be afraid of me. So what is she doing?
Her fingertips brushed the swollen knuckle. It was the lightest touch he’d ever felt—feather-soft, tentative, gentle. And her face, when he looked at it, held only concern.
Kazimir stopped breathing.
The rage that had been burning in his chest—for days, weeks, months—fractured like ice under pressure. Beneath it was something he hadn’t felt in years, something he no longer had a name for.
He dropped her chin as if burned. He snatched his hand back, curling the injured knuckles into a fist against his thigh. He took a step back. Then another.
"Get out.” The words were scraped raw. “I said, get out!”
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and strode into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
The bathroom was dark. Silent except for the ragged sound of his own breathing.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Kazimir gripped the edge of the sink and stared at his reflection. The man who stared back was a stranger—hollow-eyed, unshaven, his shirt untucked and stained with sweat.
What was that? He thought, glaring at the mirror. You just screamed at a terrified girl who did nothing except exist in the wrong place at the wrong time. You blamed her for Dante's games. For the Ferrante ambush. For the ten dead soldiers. Grandma would be ashamed of you.
Kazimir pressed his forehead against the cold mirror. His knuckles throbbed. His chest ached. The rage that had burned so hot was gone, leaving nothing behind but ash and shame.
Apologize. Go out there and apologize. Tell her you were wrong.
He straightened. He wiped his bloody knuckles on his trousers and opened the door.
The bedroom was empty. The bed was undisturbed, the sheets still pristine. The curtains beside the alcove were still drawn back. And there, on the floor, was one of her heels—abandoned mid-stride, as if she had torn it off in her flight.
She had run. Of course she had run. He had cornered her, snarled at her, and blamed her for crimes she hadn’t committed. What else was she supposed to do?
Kazimir stood in the corridor, the heel dangling from his fingers, and felt something sink in his chest.
He should go after her. He should find her and explain. But what could he possibly explain? There was only the inescapable truth: he had become exactly the monster Dante wanted him to be.
Good, he told himself. This is good. She’s afraid of me. She’ll stay away. That’s what you wanted.
He paused at the door and looked back at the empty room. He left it open and walked away.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The days that followed were a blur of damage control.
Kazimir met with Leo to review the Ferrante intelligence. He sent Ruslan to Genoa to investigate the ambush. He approved a dozen different reports and signed condolence letters for the families of the dead soldiers. He did everything a don was supposed to do except the one thing that might have mattered.
He did not go back to the bedroom.
He told himself it was strategy. The girl needed space. He needed focus. But the truth was simpler and uglier: he was afraid. Afraid of the rage that still simmered beneath his skin. Afraid of the soft concern he had glimpsed in her eyes, and what it might mean if it was real.
So he buried himself in work and tried not to think about her.
The assassination attempt came on the fourth night.
Kazimir was walking back from a meeting at the eastern docks when the first shot cracked through the darkness. The bullet missed his head by inches, shattering the window of the car behind him. He dropped, rolled behind a shipping container, and drew his pistol.
Three men. Suppressed weapons. Professional. It had to be Dante.
He took the first man with a shot to the throat. The second with two to the chest.
But the third took advantage of his opening and got close enough to drag a blade across Kazimir's ribs before Kazimir could put a bullet between his eyes.
The fight was over in fifteen minutes. Kazimir stood in the spreading pool of blood, one hand pressed to his side.
By the time he got back to the mansion, the gash had stopped bleeding but the pain had settled into a hot, persistent ache with every breath. He should have gone to the medical wing. He should have woken the doctor. Instead, his feet carried him up the stairs, down the corridor, and toward the bedroom door.
He pushed the door open. Kazimir didn’t bother with the lamp. He crossed to the bathroom in the dark, shedding his jacket and bloodied shirt along the way. The fabric stuck to his skin where the wound had wept through. Peeling it off sent a fresh spike of pain through his side.
He turned the shower on as hot as it would go. Stepped under the spray and let the water pound against his shoulders, his spine, the screaming wound in his side. The water ran pink at his feet. He pressed his forehead to the tile and closed his eyes. He stayed under the water until the heat began to fade, then shut it off. Dried himself with rough movements.
The wound was bleeding again. He would need a proper bandage.
Kazimir opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the bedroom.
And stopped.
She was there. Curled in the center of the bed, her dark hair spilling across his pillow. Her bare feet poked out at the bottom. She was so still she might have been part of the bedding, a small, pale creature that had crept into a space she didn’t belong.
Kazimir stared.
She’s in my bed.
He crossed the room quietly. The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of the bed. He was close enough now to see the tension in her shoulders and the faint tremor that ran through her frame.
She wasn't asleep.
"Stop pretending." His voice came out rough. "You're trembling."
The girl turned slowly and opened her eyes. He watched her gaze flicker from his face to the wound and back again.
Without looking away, he reached to the nightstand cabinet and opened it. Inside, neatly arranged, were first aid supplies. He took out a wipe, tore the packet open with his teeth, and dragged it across the gash. The sting was sharp and immediate. His body tensed, a sharp inhale escaping before he could stop it.
She winced.
He raised a brow. "Does the sight bother you?" He kept his voice flat, detached. "The blood? The damage?"
She shook her head quickly. Her hands came up, signing as she mouthed: ‘No.’
Kazimir watched her with a faint, cynical twist of his mouth. "No?"
His free hand hovered near the open collar of her nightdress. His fingertips brushed the hollow of her throat, where her pulse hammered. "Your heart is beating fast."
She flinched back, pressing herself into the mattress. Her eyes darted away.
A short, derisive exhale escaped him. There, that was the truth. She was afraid of him.
He leaned back against the headboard and tossed the bloody wipe onto the floor.
"Liar."
His hand shot out and closed around her wrist, pulling her hand toward his injury. Her fingers trembled violently in his grasp, just inches from the torn flesh. She tried to pull back—a silent, frantic resistance.
He released her wrist, only to wrap an arm around her waist and yank her forward. She half-sprawled against his side, thin and light as a bird. He could feel every tremor running through her and smell the faint, clean scent of soap in her hair.
"You're afraid of me. We both know it," he whispered in her ear. "Stop pretending."
She shook her head and made a choked sound.
Kazimir caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Why? What scares you? The blood? Or are you regretting it already?"
Regretting what? The deal? The role? The moment she'd agreed to be Dante's pawn? He didn't know what he was asking. He just needed an answer—any answer—that would make sense of the chaos she had introduced into his life.
His fingers tangled in her hair as he guided her face closer to his injured side. "Since you decided to play his game, clean it. Act like my wife."
Her eyes went to the wound and stared.
Kazimir grabbed the antiseptic and a fresh gauze pad from the kit and shoved them into her palm, folding her fingers around them. His hand closed over hers, forcing it toward the wound.
"If you're not afraid, touch it."
Prove it. Prove you're not what I think you are. Prove that the softness in your eyes wasn't just another mask.
She lowered her head in submission and brought the gauze to his side. Her hands trembled, but they were competent and precise. She dabbed the blood with careful attention, cleaned the edges, and applied the ointment. Then she pulled the bandage taut around his torso and secured it with a flat knot.
Kazimir went still. His cynical detachment evaporated. His mind raced. If she knew how to dress wounds, she would have been around blood. If she had been around blood, she was not the innocent victim she appeared to be. If she was not innocent—
She's a spy. She has to be.
When she finished and attempted to retreat, he tilted her face back.
"Who taught you that?"
She squeezed her eyes shut. A fresh wave of tears spilled over.
"Look at me." He gave her head a small, sharp shake. "Answer."
She opened her eyes. Tears swam. Her lips trembled as she mouthed the words: ‘Myself.’
The word detonated in his chest. She had taught herself? Had she been hurt enough to learn how to patch her own wounds?
She's not a spy. She's just... kind. Even now. Even after everything you've done to her.
He stared into her eyes—those wide, wet hazel eyes—fixed on his face with that same soft concern he had seen on the night of the dinner. Something inside him cracked open.
Is this the kind of person you have become?
The boy who had cupped dying birds in his palms. The boy who had cried over dead animals and given his desserts to kitchen maids. The boy Nadia had knelt beside in the garden and taught to be gentle. Where had he gone? What had Dante's years of warfare carved out of him?
You accused a terrified girl of being a spy because she bandaged your wound. You repaid her with suspicion and cruelty.
He released her hair. His thumb came up and wiped across her wet cheek—a gesture that was meant to be gentle but felt foreign, awkward, like a language he had forgotten how to speak.
"Stop." The word came out rough. He didn't mean it as a command. He meant it as a plea. "Don't look at me like that. I don't need your pity."
She shook her head. A fresh wave of tears spilled over, tracking down her cheeks.
He froze. His fingers loosened, shame cutting through the anger. He let go of her wrist and stepped back.
“Go to sleep.”
He turned and walked out. The door shut hard behind him.
The hallway was dark and cold. Kazimir walked until he reached the window at the end of the corridor and stopped, one hand braced against the glass. The sea churned below, grey and indifferent.
His reflection stared back at him: hollow-eyed, bandaged, pathetic.
You are ridiculous.
He had almost been killed tonight. He had dragged himself home like a wounded animal crawling back to its den. And instead of being grateful that someone had helped him—instead of accepting the first gentle touch he had received in years—he had interrogated her. Accused her. Punished her for the crime of being competent at something she should never have had to learn.
His fist clenched against the window.
Is this who you want to be? Is this what Grandma wanted for you? Is this what Grandpa meant when he said you were too soft—that you would let the world turn you into stone?
He thought he was protecting himself. He thought that suspicion was strength and distance was safety. But standing here, bleeding through the bandage she tied, he realized the truth: He had not been protecting himself. He had been hollowing himself out, chipping away every soft part until all that remained was a shell of the boy who had cupped that dying bird in his palms.
That boy was still in there. He had felt him stir when the girl reached for his knuckles. He had felt him surface when she looked at his wound with nothing but concern.
You can't keep doing this. You can't keep punishing her for existing. She's not Dante's weapon. She's just a girl who got caught in the crossfire—just like you.
Kazimir pressed his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would try again. He would find her. He would prove to her—and to himself—that the monster in the mirror was not the only thing left inside him.