Ivan grins broadly, showcasing pearly white teeth and a more youthful face. The graying edges of his hair are gone, and he is clean shaven, making him look years younger than the man he portrayed. Hell, even his eye color is different. Gone are the hazel contacts, replaced by the familiar silver glint.
There are very little traces of Jonathon Archer left. He hid behind his façade so well that I barely recognize the man standing in front of me.
“I know more about you than you think.” He lowers his gun as a show of good faith, tucking it into his waistband.
“Well,” I tip the muzzle of my gun back and forth. “Not surprising with your stalker tendencies.” The man looks like he wants to smile, but he keeps his face somewhat neutral.
“You should tell your man downstairs to come on up for a drink,” Ivan informs me. He gives my gun a quick glance before walking to the bar that sits to one side of me. Dima curses over the comms line. I wince at the volume. “He’s good.” Ivan smirks. “My men are just better.”
“Indeed,” I grumble and bark at Dima to stand by in the lobby. “How long have you known?”
Ivan chuckles darkly. “Since the minute you stepped off the plane.”
I swear.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right now, then?”
That fucking smirk. I want to wipe it off his face.
“I want Kirill dead.”
That isn’t what I expect.
“He’s your uncle. Why would you want that?”
Ivan turns toward me, jaw clenched, the muscles in his throat tightening around his pulsing carotid. The man is angry, eyes burning with uncontrolled hatred.
“Antony Tkachenko was my brother.”
I shake my head slightly, gun lowering. Brother. That is impossible. He called me brother before he died. Antony was a Kasyanov.
Right?
“Impossible,” I murmur and take the glass of scotch he offers.
Ivan scoffs. “I think I would know my own brother.”
I think back to that fateful night. The one where we fought, and I killed him.
“I’m sorry,brat.”
Those are the words he said to me.
Unless they weren’t meant for me. Maybe they are meant for Ivan?
“How much do you know about Kirill?” he asks me. Ivan sits across from me in one of the other chairs, making himself comfortable as he sips on his vodka.
“Seeing as how he is my father,” I sneer at the term. “A lot.”
And out comes the smirk again.
“Is he though?”
Thismudakis playing with fire.
“You think I don’t know my own father?” I growl. My hand tightens on the glass in my hand. “The pig of a man who got my mother addicted to drugs. The scum of the earth who kicked me out on my ass when I was eleven. The scourge of my life who sent one assassin after another for years until they were too afraid to come after me. That man? I know that man.”
There is sadness and regret in Ivan’s eyes. His gaze is fixed on me. The tension in his shoulders releases and he seems at ease.Off guard. I could kill him now for everything he has done, and he would be unprepared.
