But Anya?
She was nothing more than a mistake, relocated to live with the Volkovs so they could poison her against me. Untilnow.
I groaned, rubbing my face and wishing I hadn’t taken that call right then.
Anya wouldn’t be my legacy after the years of her grandparents telling her how awful I was. Anya wouldn’t contribute to my success after all that time of being brainwashed to loathe me, just like Olga had.
I seldom gave a shit what others thought of me. Every plan I made revolved around how it would impact my businesses and further strengthen my forces.
Anya didn’t apply to any of that. She couldn’t fit in with any part of my world. Any chance of our even forming a father-daughter bond was over with. With how she had been conditioned to hate me from the Volkovs, I didn’t even give a fuck about her coming here.
It was callous but true.
I heaved out another deep exhale. “I just don’t give a fuck,” I muttered. I had too many other things to concentrate on.
“You don’t give a fuck about what?” Andre asked as he strode into my office, catching the tail end of my remark. He moved quickly and with ease, showing that natural athleticism he had, proving he’d never lose that confidence I’d taught him to always show.
Tall, strong, and proud, he was my right-hand man. My lethal and calculating killer who never failed to put family first.
I gave a fuck about him. I always would. Alongside my nephews, Sergei and Roman, Andre played a significant role in the organization as one of the uppermost leaders in our family.
They were the ones I depended on. They were the ones I looked out for. Ones I cared deeply about—unlike this bratty, bitter distant daughter I’d have to put up with now.
Andre raised his brows, expecting an answer. He exuded power. Intelligence. Grit.
Not malicious hatred, which I damn well knew to expect from the daughter I’d never met.
With that one phone call I’d just taken, it was clear the days of our “good old boys’ club” would be over.
“Father?” Andre prompted when I stared at him.
“I just received a call.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, at ease as he stared me right back down. Too trained to ask stupid questions and demonstrating his patience, he waited me out to explain, knowing that if it was something he needed to know, I’d tell him.
“A call from Moscow,” I added.
He shrugged.
“It appears your sister is coming back to live with us.”
That got a reaction out of him. He huffed a wry laugh. “Comingback?” he asked sardonically. “When was she here in the first place?”
He had a good point. She had been born in Moscow and neither of us had met her. Andre had been almost thirteen when she was born. A birth I only knew about from pictures and a verified paternity test.
“She’s coming here,” I corrected.
“Why?”
“Her uncle passed away.”
He rolled his eyes. “And no one else in the fucking Volkov family can take her in?”
“No one else is left. No one with wealth or power to dictate what should happen to her.” It was my turn to shrug. “While it’s not my fault the family is now destitute because of their piss-port management of finances, she is my child. It’ll be up to me to provide for her now.”
“And I bet Olga will be rolling over in her fucking grave,” he replied.
No love was lost between my son and my dead wife. Since his birth, she'd avoided him. As soon as he was delivered, she ran off to Moscow, leaving me to raise him on my own. When she was expected to visit me with her parents, she avoided even seeing her son, totally uninterested in him. All to fuck me by accidentand run back home once more, where she lived until she killed herself.
