"Tell me, printsessa." he whispers. "How does that feel? Knowing you're outside Ivan's reach? Outside anyone's reach? Just you and me and open water for hours."
"You can't do anything to me." The words sound hollow even to my own ears.
"Can't I?"
He moves away toward the champagne chilling in its silver bucket. He pops it open with ease and pours a glass slowly.
"You know, the meeting that day." He's not looking at me, focusing instead on the champagne like it's the most important thing in the world. "The beating. The humiliation in front of my men. Being choked by your boyfriend."
He touches his neck. The bruises are spectacular in the low light. Purple and black and angry.
"Being disrespected in the worst possible way. Unable to fight back. Unable to defend myself. Just... helpless."
He takes a drink and savors it for a moment.
"I told you it made me see clearly. Made me realize I'd been too soft with you." Another drink. "But it made me see a truth, too. One I’ve always known but never admitted. My whole life, I've been nothing but a pet to the Petrovs. My father called it duty. Called it honor. Called it tradition and legacy and all these pretty words for servitude."
Another drink. He's working himself up. I can hear it in his voice.
"But Ivan—in his rage, in his honesty—he named it correctly. A roach. A parasite. Living off the Petrov name while they take all the glory." He finally looks at me again. "You must not understand that kind of humiliation. Can't possibly understand what it's like to realize your entire existence is built on being second-best. On being an afterthought."
"Is that what this is about?" I ask, my voice steadier now. "You're jealous of Ivan?"
He laughs.
"Well." He sets down the champagne glass. "You're in a bit of a predicament right now. About to be sold and shipped off. About to disappear forever into someone's private collection. So I suppose I can be honest with you. What does it matter at this point?"
He takes a step closer.
"Yes. I'm jealous. Petrovs getting all the glory. All the respect. All the power. While Volkovs clean up their messes and take their scraps." He lets out a humorless laugh. "They run the main operations—the ports, the politics, the real money. The legacy everyone remembers."
His voice hardens with every word, the polish cracking into bare emotion.
"And I sit here selling whores to perverts and cheap drugs to junkies. The dirty work nobody wants to acknowledge. Always second-best. Always taking what's left over from their table. Never invited to sit at the table myself."
He's pacing now, unable to stand still.
"And then Ivan thinks he can throw it all away to fuck some American bitch and destroy everything. Everything my family built. Not his family—mine. The Volkovs made the Petrovs what they are. We provided the muscle. The connections. The dirty work that kept their hands clean."
I feel a twist in my chest. I’m not sure what it is: disgust, sympathy, horror. This dangerous man reduced to jealousy and resentment. This killer, who's about to sell me, feeling sorry for himself. It’s almost?—
"I've been wondering." His voice pulls me back. He's stopped pacing and is looking at me with an expression I can't read. "What it would feel like to take what I was never meant to have.”
Oh no.
"To touch what a Volkov was never supposed to touch." He takes a step closer. "A treasure. A prize. A forbidden pleasure for a roach like me."
Another step.
"A loss he’ll never forget."
The realization hits.
Oh God. No.
I stand up quickly. Too quickly. The room tilts. Or maybe that's the yacht moving.
Either way, I back away and circle around him. My eyes scan for anything. A weapon. An escape.
