“Your father adapted for a time,” he comments. “He was useful and clever. He had a mind for numbers and structure. Men like him build empires.”
“And then he betrayed yours,” I state.
He inclines his head. “He tried. He stole. He talked to the wrong people. He believed he could take what he wanted and walk away with no consequences.”
Anger pricks at the back of my eyes. “He walked away from us,” I remind him. “From his family.”
“And that,” Isaak remarks, “tells you everything you need to know about his character.”
My grip on the chair's edge tightens. “You had him killed.”
The sentence lands between us like a live wire. Isaak’s expression smooths into an almost bored calm. “Men like Thomas do not simply die,” he remarks. “They rot. They poison everything around them, until someone finishes them.”
Heat rushes up my chest. “You talk about him like he was garbage,” I accuse. “He was my father. He tucked me in at night. He kissed my forehead. He taught me how to sign my name. How can you sit there and speak about him like that?”
He studies me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Because I cannot afford to speak about him any other way. Not when he made the choices he did. Not when his actions could have cost me my son, my men, and everything I built.”
“You ordered his death,” I insist. “You decided he deserved to die, and you made it happen.”
A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face, making the hair at the back of my neck rise.
“I gave the order,” he confirms. “I will not pretend otherwise.”
My heart pounds in my ears. The room feels too small. The man in front of me is the reason my mother sat at the kitchen table at three in the morning with a cold cup of coffee and red eyes. He is the reason I grew up watching for a car that never pulled into the driveway.
“You are a murderer,” I tell him. The word tastes like acid.
He lifts his glass again as if I have just commented on the weather. “I am a man who understands what must be done,” he replies. “Your father made his choice. So did I.”
Anger and grief war inside my chest. I push up from the chair, unable to sit any longer. My hands tremble at my sides.
“You expect me to raise my child in this house with you in it?” I point out. “Knowing what you did. Knowing what you think of the man who helped bring me into the world.”
Isaak’s gaze drops to my stomach and returns to my face. There is no softness there at all now.
“I expect you to recognize that I can be an ally,” he answers. “You carry Luka’s heir. That grants you protection and power. Morethan you realize. You can use it. Or you can waste it on sentiment for a man who discarded you long before I intervened.”
The words slice right into that old wound. I know my father left us. I know he chose his work over us. But hearing Isaak say it like a weapon still hurts.
“That doesn’t excuse what you did,” I fire back. “You had him killed.”
Isaak’s smile widens, then fades into something colder. He takes another sip of his drink, then sets the glass down with care.
“I did not have the pleasure of seeing it,” he comments almost casually. “I was in Moscow when the call came. My enforcers informed me that the problem had been dealt with. That is all.” He lifts one shoulder. “In truth, I would have preferred to watch. Men like Thomas often think they can talk their way out of consequences. I find it useful to look them in the eye when they realize they cannot.”
His words hit me in two places at once. First, the ugly cruelty of them. Second, the small detail buried inside.
He didn’t see it. He didn’t witness anything. He accepted someone else’s story and built the rest of his life on it. My mind latches onto that fact like a hook.
“You didn’t confirm it,” I realize out loud. “You took someone’s word and moved on.”
His eyes cool. “I did not need to see a body to understand the situation was handled,” he responds. “I trusted the men who gave the report. That has always been enough.”
Before I can respond, the study door opens without a knock. Luka strides in, shoulders tight, his expression carved withconcern and anger. He looks at me first, scanning for harm, then at his father.
“This conversation is over,” Luka announces. He comes to my side and puts an arm around my back, drawing me closer to him. His touch helps my breathing find a rhythm again.
Isaak arches a brow. “I did not realize I needed your permission to speak with your woman,” he comments.
