“Have you considered my offer?” Alexandr asks, his voice calm, measured. Dangerous in its patience.
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
One eyebrow lifts. “And?”
“I’m considering it,” I say carefully, “only because I want to be with Anya.”
The words hang between us, stark and honest. Alexandr leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze sharpening.
“You would refuse power,” he says slowly, “refuse Alexi’s position, if not for her?”
“I would,” I reply without flinching. “I don’t want your empire. I don’t want your title. I want your daughter. And I won’t take either unless she chooses it.”
His jaw tightens. “She belongs here. With her family. With her people.”
“She belongs to herself,” I counter. “And she’ll decide whether she stays in Russia or returns to the States with me. Not you. Not the Bratva. Her.”
For the first time since I’ve known him, Alexandr’s composure cracks. His hand comes down on the desk, not hard enough to be a threat, but enough to be a warning.
“You speak as if you have the right—”
A knock interrupts him.
Sharp. Insistent.
“Come in,” Alexandr snaps.
The door opens, and Alexi steps inside.
For a moment, no one moves.
Alexi looks thinner than the last time Alexandr saw him, his face still marked by healing bruises, but his eyes are clear, steady. Alive. Alexandr rises slowly from his chair, the authority draining from his posture, replaced by something raw and unguarded.
“My son,” he breathes.
Alexi crosses the room without a word. They stop a few feet apart, staring at one another as if confirming that this isn’t some cruel trick. Then Alexandr pulls Alexi into a fierce embrace. Alexi hesitates only a second before returning it, one hand gripping the back of his father’s jacket.
I avert my eyes, giving them the privacy they deserve, but I can’t help watching from the corner of my vision. Whatever else Alexandr is, he is a father who believed his son dead. The relief on his face is unmistakable.
I step back quietly, moving toward the door.
“Vladimir,” Alexandr says, his voice rough now.
I pause and turn.
“We will continue this discussion,” he says. It isn’t a command. It’s a promise.
“Yes,” I reply simply. “We will.”
I leave them there, closing the door softly behind me.
Anya is waiting just outside the office, pacing the hallway like a caged thing. The moment she sees me, her face lights up, tension melting into relief. She rushes toward me, stopping just short, as if unsure whether she’s allowed to cling to me here.
I take that choice away from her, pulling her into my arms.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, her voice hushed.
“Yes,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Your brother is with your father.”
