I can see and hear everything that happens in my mansion when I’m not around.
Right now, the wife who hates my guts and would happily slit my throat given half a chance lies sprawled across my ruinously expensive designer leather sofa, watching a show on the giant TV above the fireplace.
Nothing unusual about that. Monitoring her daily activities has shown me she loves trashy shows, especially reality TV. From her animated facial expressions, she seems to enjoy watching vacuous men and women do dumb things.
For her, I suppose it’s the TV version of doomscrolling on social media, which she doesn’t have access to now.
I’d been ready to leave her alone for the evening and switch into work mode, but then my asshole brother arrived.
I knew he was back in town, of course. We always keep tabs on him. At least Fina and I do. It’s questionable whether our father cares.
Luka strolls into the living room, and the two of them talk. I zoom in on Chiara’s face and grin when she gives my brother the cold shoulder.Good. I hope she tells him to fuck off.
But that doesn’t happen, and after a few minutes, they settle down to watch a new show. It kills me to see them act like an old married couple. His hands rest on her legs while she watches the television. I’m not dumb; I see the way he looks at her when he thinks she’s not paying attention.
The longer I watch them, the more my skin itches in a way that makes me want to punch something.
Or someone.
Preferably my brother.
How come he gets a free pass?
I’m being completely irrational. Chiara has every reason to hate me. Because of my family, her life is temporarily on hold, and until she gives me an heir, she won’t ever escape.
Or so she thinks.
In reality, it’s way worse than that.
Yes, I need an heir to keep my father off my back, but what she doesn’t yet understand is that I won’t ever let her go, even if she gives me a child.
Chiara is mine.
The only way she gets to leave me is in a casket.
And that won’t happen because I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt her.
Even my own flesh and blood.
A message pops up on my phone screen, temporarily distracting me from the live stream of my living room at the mansion.
Kane: The Russian’s popped up at the Serpent.
My pulse quickens. The Russian bastard is brutal. The last time we met in the ring, he pulverized me. To be fair, I’d been drinking that night, so my reflexes were slower than usual. But even so, he’d have still won our fight.
I’m not an idiot. I know when I’m outclassed.
Still, the chance of a re-match is too tempting to ignore. And besides, I could do with blowing off some steam.
Me: Add my name to the board. I’ll be there in 30.
Kyril Orliov is huge. A giant of a man. I’m no slouch in the height department, but next to him I feel short.
He leans against the ring barrier watching me like a panther as I finish taping my hands. I note he’s not bothered taping his own, and after his two previous fights, his fists are bloody.
The guy with him whispers something in his ear. Orliov drinks from his water bottle before they both smirk at me. A moment later, a petite woman appears from behind the pair of them. She’s stunning, with a curtain of shiny black hair and olive skin.
Thea Orliov.
