I put this away in my memory, in case I can use it the next time I have to make things up. "Is he plotting against me?" His voice softens. His eyes glaze with the threat of murder. "Is that bastard son of mine planning to betray me?"
I swallow down a lump in my throat. I don’t need to touch anything to know the answer. I can’t explain it. Somehow, from that single photograph, I know, without a doubt, that Roman is plotting against his father.
I feel it as clearly as if my hands were on him. It radiates off and surrounds him. It’s also scary as heck, this feeling that washes over me, knowing so much about someone from just a picture.
I should tell Grigori. I’ve told him everything so far. I part my lips to do just that, when a voice inside my head begs me not to. Every instinct now screams at me to stay silent, clamp my mouth shut.
My heart threatens to beat through my chest when I see Grigori’s stare slicing into me, his patience wearing thin.
"No.” The word comes out smooth and steady as I lie to the Pakhan for the first time ever. Not only that, I make it worse by telling even more lies.
“He’s desperate for your approval,” I add. “He wants to prove himself. He thinks if he’s ruthless enough, strong enough, you’ll finally claim him as your son instead of your bastard.”
Grigori stares at me, searching my face for any sign of deception. I blink normally, I breathe normally and keep my face as normal as possible.
Finally, he laughs again. It’s harsher this time and reminds me of the villains in movies. His laughter stops. "Blyad,” he growls, the Russian word comes out like a curse even though I don’t understand the meaning. “He is a fool, thinking Iwould claim him. Roman, like you, is nothing but a tool. Only difference— he is an entitled piece of shit.”
He shoves out of his chair. I don’t have time to react or brace for his kick. It comes too fast. His boot slams into my ribs. I double over in pain, crying out. That doesn’t stop him from kicking me again. I curl into a ball, arms tight around my middle, fighting to breathe.
"Next week," he warns, looming over me. "I want better visions. Real information. Not this useless shit about my worthless son's feelings."
I hear his footsteps on the stairs and through the pain I’m vaguely aware of the door slamming. The lock going back into place. I stay curled on the floor, arms wrapped around my ribs. They feel broken, but I know they’re not. After seven years, I know the difference. They'll bruise and turn dark purple then black for a while. It’ll hurt to breathe, cough and move, but it will heal.
I’m not sure how long I lie there. I’m so numb and tired I don’t care. I close my eyes, unable to get over the fact that this is where I’ll die.
This basement will be the last thing I ever see. Grigori’s face might be the last face I ever see, and I hate that thought more than the pain. I hate that I’ll never feel the sun warm on my skin again. That I’ll never see the stars shining at night or inhale fresh air from outside again.
Worse, I’ll never see Kayla again, although I doubt she remembers me. I’ll never ever have a life like everyone else. I gasp in another breath, letting Roman Ivanov’s face surface in my mind. I know I’ll never meet him. That’s okay. Just knowing that somewhere in this city, there's another person who hates Grigori as much as I do brings a strange kind of comfort.
My only comfort.
Whatever Roman is planning probably won’t change anything. The Pakhan is too powerful.
In a sick way, I’m partly to blame. I helped make him that way.
Still…it’s the first positive thought I’ve had since I was eleven. I cling to it as I crawl to the mattress and let sleep, unconsciousness or death take me.
I don’t care which.
CHAPTER 2
ROMAN
“Wait over there.”
I walk past one of the two guards stationed in the hallway of The Fortress, my father’s mansion and meeting place for top tier Volchya leaders. I don’t need to check my watch for the time outside the council room. My time means nothing to him.
If the Pakhan orders me to wait, I wait. That’s the game I’m forced to play. Every fucking week. It’s always the same thing. I wait like his lap dog, then listen to him rant about loyalty and strength, all the while he’s making decisions and deals that bleed Volchya dry and weaken our hold and power in Moscow.
I have to sit, pretending I'm the obedient bastard son instead of the man waiting for the right opportunity to kill him. It’s all a joke at this point and one I’ve vowed to end. I lean my head against the wall, facing the door separating the Pakhan and us.
It’s so obvious, him making us wait is nothing but a power play. Pointless and petty, meant to remind us who’s incharge. No worries there, we already know. But… he’s the Boss, so it’s his way or suffer the consequences. I accept that. It’s how we operate.
Always has been.
Lev, my second in command, settles against the wall next to me, arms crossed. "You think it’ll be as long as last week?"
“Wouldn’t be surprised.”
