Everything, including marrying me. Including accepting Ava.
I set down my champagne glass with a clink.
“When? When was this?”
“In November.”
Just before Art showed up at the hospital. Just before he decided to strong-arm his way back into our lives.
A rock lodges itself in the bottom of my stomach. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t even obsession. This was another pathway for Art to get to power. A step on the fucked-up career ladder within the bratva.
An instruction from his freaking grandmother.
Karolina continues, but I’m barely listening anymore.
“You should have seen Art’s face at the birthday. He didn't make a big deal out of it, he's far too diplomatic for that, but I've never seen him so surprised. And I’ve seen him fall for Boris’s trip wires many, many times when we were children. This was so much better.”
The ulterior motive.
I knew Art wouldn’t lift a finger unless there was something in it for him.
Karolina’s pretty eyes widen, raking over my face.
“Oh Nina.” She lifts a hand to her mouth. “You really didn't know any of this, did you? He didn't tell you?”
I’m already rising to my feet, kicking off the stupid stilettos and walking across the ballroom in just my stockings.
“He did not tell me. And he's gonna pay for it.”
I don’t wait for her reaction, but to my surprise, she calls after me: “Get him, Nina.”
I might be a little too tipsy to have a conversation like this, but he is not getting away with this.
I shove my way through the throngs of people in the ballroom before slipping into the quiet of the labyrinthine corridors of the Estate.
One thing’s for sure. If Art has used me and Ava to get power, he's never going to hear the end of it.
I storm into Art’s study. It’s dimly lit, as always, but I could make out exactly what’s happening without looking, just from the low curses and thuds.
I don't know what I expected.
A conversation over whiskey, maybe. Some arguing. Raised voices.
Art physically wrestling Valentin to the ground, busting his nose with a punch, was not on the list.
I am more than willing to add to the chaos. Who cares if I'm interrupting them? I am propelled by nothing but rage.
“Artyom Petrov,” I yell.
They don’t respond, Valentin silently taking a beating as Art gains the upper hand.
I swipe a letter opener from the desk as I approach them.
They don’t notice me. Don’t listen to my yelling.
Until I press the blade of the letter opener to the side of Art’s neck.
Then, I have their attention.
