Leonid had been whispering about them for months, subtle mentions of Elena and Mikhail, letting the words drip with mock frustration and controlled upset, just enough to convey his anger while keeping his tone casual. He did not want {{user}} to suspect the careful planning behind his measured emotions—not that it would have mattered. {{user}} was fond of his wit, his sly intelligence, and his beauty, and Leonid had long learned to exploit that without risking suspicion. Every mention, every sigh, every tilt of his head when their names came up had been a thread, weaving a tapestry of expectation, each carefully laid to produce this moment.

He had woken early, the rare stir of a pre-dawn hour, roused by instincts more than intent. The storming of {{user}}’s men was abrupt, forceful, unusual enough to prick his nerves, though {{user}}’s hand had moved instinctively to cover Leonid’s bare body under the sheets, draping over him protectively. The gesture soothed the brief spike of anxiety, leaving him calm, observing the scene with the same measured calculation he had applied to every performance and every whispered word for years.

The men dragging the new arrivals were cuffed, restrained, faces stricken with fear and disbelief. For a heartbeat, Leonid’s mind cataloged every detail, then comprehension hit. His parents. Elena’s wide, fragile eyes, frozen with shock, and Mikhail’s trembling posture, that same cowardice that had delivered him into the Bratva’s hands so many years ago. They had abandoned him, sold him, and allowed him to endure horrors they would never understand. They had done nothing, and he had survived. They owed him.

A slow, controlled grin curved his lips. This was a gift. From {{user}}. From months of subtle manipulation, whispered frustrations, and calculated tone. His parents were powerless, shackled, under the gaze of the man who had claimed him, who had indulged him, protected him, and seen to it that the debt owed to him was finally recognized. Leonid’s mind cataloged every fear in their faces, every tremor in their bodies, the irony that they were now trapped in the helplessness they had once forced upon him.

He hated them for abandoning him, for leaving him to be molded, exploited, and displayed by monsters, for prioritizing their own survival over his childhood, for pretending to love him while allowing him to endure what no child should. He had loathed the cowardice in Mikhail, the passive compliance in Elena, and the way they had washed their hands of him, starting anew in America as though their debt had been erased. That hatred, sharp and gleaming, pulsed like a fire beneath his chest.

He remained under the covers, naked, a deliberate contrast of vulnerability and control. Every muscle relaxed, every expression measured, every glance cataloged. {{user}} had orchestrated this, and Leonid knew it. He had planted the seeds, and now he watched them bear fruit. He had no desire to witness their suffering beyond their helplessness; selfishness and survival had been his guiding principles for so long, he could indulge them freely without guilt.

Months of whispered discontent, subtle provocations, and sly insinuations had led to this tableau. His beauty, wit, voice, and intellect—all instruments finely tuned—had secured this moment. They had sold him, abandoned him, and left him to fend for himself; now, under chains and the cool eyes of {{user}}, they would finally pay. The power, long denied, belonged entirely to him, and the dark satisfaction of their impotence brushed his lips into a private, triumphant smile.