Desperation masked as enthusiasm.
"Maksim! Gentlemen! Please, come in, come in." He gestures broadly, movements too expansive. Nervous energy burning through forced joviality, like a man trying to convince himself this is just business, not surrender.
I don't sit. Instead, I begin a slow circuit of the office, hands clasped behind my back. Establishing territory. Reminding him who holds the power here. Alexei drops into one of the leather chairs with deliberate casualness, legs spread, arms draped over the rests like he's evaluating which piece of furniture he'll set on fire first. Zakhar positions himself by the door, feet plantedshoulder-width apart, hands loosely clasped in front. Sentinel. Guardian. Executioner, if it comes to that.
Arthur tries to fill the silence. "Can I offer you gentlemen a drink? I have a rather exceptional—"
"Let's not waste time." I pick up a crystal paperweight from his desk. Heavy. Cold. I set it down without ceremony, dismissing both the object and his attempt at small talk. "You know why we're here."
His smile falters. Good.
I continue my circuit, touching objects, examining them, putting them down. A pen. A letter opener. A photograph in a silver frame of Arthur shaking hands with an influential politician. Each touch is a claim, a reminder that nothing in this room is beyond my reach.
"Your private banking business is failing. You lost money belonging to the Albanian Mafia while attempting to launder it. Creative accounting can't hide bodies, Arthur, and the Albanians are very interested in accountability."
Arthur's complexion shifts from florid to ash. He sinks into his chair like a man who's been gut-shot but doesn't want to acknowledge the wound.
"Fortunately for you," I continue, my voice still that same controlled monotone, "the Albanians are also an inconvenience to the Severyn Bratva. Which means we have a vested interest inseeing them... disappointed. We can provide protection. Buy you time. Ensure you live long enough to repay what you owe."
I stop at the window overlooking the back of the property. Manicured gardens slowly losing their battle with neglect. A pool sparkling blue in the afternoon sun, the water so clear it looks like cut glass. And—
My thoughts fracture.
A woman floats on an inflatable in the center of the pool. Red bikini. Olive skin glistening wet. Dark hair spread around her like a saint's halo in a Renaissance painting. She's wearing sunglasses, face tilted toward the sun, body utterly relaxed in a way that speaks of someone comfortable in her own skin. One leg dangles in the water, toes breaking the surface in lazy circles.
Victoria Ainsley.
I've seen photographs. Society pages. Gossip blogs. The socialite daughter of failing American royalty, always impeccably dressed, always photographed at the right events with the right people. Beautiful in that untouchable way of women who've never had to fight for anything.
The photographs lied.
They didn't capture the curve of her waist where it dips before flaring to her hips. The way water beads on her skin and catches light like diamonds. The arch of her foot as she shifts on the raft, unselfconscious, unaware of being watched.
My pulse kicks up. Heat spreads through my chest, down to my groin. The kind of base physical response I trained out of myself years ago because desire is leverage and leverage gets you killed. I taught myself discipline. Restraint. The ability to look at a beautiful woman and see only variables, potential complications, strategic value.
I can't look away.
My hands want to move, to adjust my cuffs, to do something, anything to discharge the tension building in my shoulders. I force them to stay clasped behind my back. But my jaw tightens. My pulse pounds in my throat. I've stopped talking mid-sentence, the thread of negotiation completely lost because a woman in a red bikini has somehow short-circuited twenty-five years of iron discipline.
This is unacceptable.
"Maksim?" Alexei's voice cuts through the haze. I've been silent too long.
I clear my throat. Force my gaze away from the window with more effort than it should require. Back to Arthur, who's watching me with renewed hope, like he's just realized he might have an asset after all.
"The alliance," I say, my voice rougher than before, and I despise the crack in my composure. "An exchange of assets. The Severyn name needs legitimacy. The Ainsley name needs protection. Marriage provides both."
Arthur's fingers drum against his desk, a nervous pattern that betrays his thoughts before he opens his mouth. "Victoria is... she can be difficult. Strong-willed. She may require some persuasion."
Difficult. Strong-willed.
The words should concern me. Instead, hunger sharpens in my chest like a blade being whetted against stone.
"Has she been informed of the arrangement?" Zakhar asks from his position by the door. Always practical. Always thinking three moves ahead.
"Not yet," Arthur admits, and there's shame in his voice, thin and bitter. "I thought it best to finalize details first."
Coward. Selling his daughter and too weak to even tell her to her face. The contempt I feel is clean and uncomplicated. This is what happens when men choose comfort over strength. They rot from the inside until there's nothing left but the performance of power.
