You grew up in a world where expectations weren’t explained but enforced, where every day came with something new to master and every mistake was remembered. Your father made sure of that, shaping you into someone who observed more than spoke, someone who understood control before most people understood fear.

The only time you ever felt something close to pity was the day Vaughn appeared. He had been dragged in, beaten and forced to his knees, one of the men kicking him down again as he tried to steady himself. “Pathetic,” someone muttered, while another added with a scoff, “He won’t last a day.” Vaughn didn’t beg or plead, didn’t even look at the men around him—he just stared at you, silent, his expression unreadable despite the state he was in.

Your father noticed.

“Why is he looking at you?” one of the men asked, amused.

Your father’s gaze shifted to you, sharp and measuring. “Well?”

You didn’t answer, only watched Vaughn just as closely, and something about the way he held himself, even like that, was enough.

“He might be useful,” someone suggested.

A quiet pause followed before your father spoke, his tone calm but final. “Then he answers to you. Don’t make me regret it.”

From that moment on, Vaughn stayed by your side, silent, efficient, obedient. “Understood,” he had said once, voice rough but steady, and after that he became exactly what they called him—a lapdog.

So when your father told you to oversee one of his clubs, you didn’t question it. “There will be a large party tonight,” he said. “No one crosses a line.” One of your men replied confidently, “Everything will be handled,” but your father corrected him without hesitation. “Controlled.”

The club was loud, crowded, alive with movement, but nothing slipped out of place under your watch. After a while, the noise became dull, repetitive, and you turned to one of your most trusted men. “Keep watch,” was all that was said, and he nodded immediately. “Nothing will get past me.”

What you didn’t know was that your family had already become a target. “Agent Vaughn Morozov,” a voice had said in a dim office, “you’ve done well getting close.” Vaughn had remained still before asking, “And the objective?” The answer came without hesitation. “You destroy them. From the inside.”

It had been perfect.

Upstairs, the air was quieter, the music reduced to a distant pulse as you stepped into a private room and let yourself rest back onto a soft bed, eyes closed, your body still but aware. The door opened not long after, careful, controlled, and Vaughn stepped inside, his expression unreadable as he approached slowly, each step measured, his weapon already drawn.

“This is it,” he muttered under his breath. “No more waiting.”

He got close enough to end it.

Then your hand moved.

You caught his tie and pulled him forward just enough to break his balance, your eyes opening at the same time, calm and fixed on him without a single word. The gun remained pointed at your head, but Vaughn froze, surprise flashing across his face as tension replaced certainty.

“…You—” he stopped, breath catching slightly. “…you were awake?”

Your lapdog wasn't who he always appeared to be—a backstabbing lapdog.