I glance at Jenica, who is clearly over it, then reach for my drink for the first time. “It’s nothing against your daughter.”
Across the table, Dmitry’s eyes are in slits as he tips his chin up at me. “Then why the rebellion?”
I take a casual second sip, not in the mood for whiskey but not hating the effect. “I am with someone.”
“Someone who isn’t Bratva. Someone who doesn’t benefit us.” My dad is trying to cover it up. To pretend it’s not legit. “Son. Jenica is a truce.”
“Our daughter is a gem,” Dmitry adds. “You marry Jenica and we call a ceasefire.”
That stops me. “Ceasefire?”
My dad goes on. “As you know, peace between our families would be very profitable, especially right now.”
I can’t believe what anyone is saying. In all my years in the Bratva, peace has never been an option. Temporary truces, maybe, but never actual peace.
“You have something to say?” my dad asks, most likely because my expression is doing a lot of talking right now.
“An arranged marriage doesn’t change the bad blood that runs between us,” I say. “And it sure as hell doesn’t negate what happened to Nik.” My eyes slide over to my father. “Or have you forgotten?”
“Niklaus’s death was less about rivalry and more about recklessness,” my dad states.
“We will always mourn your loss,” Katya offers.
Bullshit.
I bite back a bitter smirk and set my glass down. The strongest whiskey in the world couldn’t numb the battery acid surging through my nerves right now. “Nik’s death was not an accident.”
“He was racing and lost control of the car,” my dad argues.
“He was the best driver I knew. Something was wrong with the car,” I snap back.
“All of this is beside the point. None of it can be changed.”
“No it cannot.” I stand up. “And marrying Jenica wouldn’t change anything either.”
I’m done. But as I head out of the room, my dad calls out to me. “Ransome. You’re making a mistake.”
I don’t look back. I don’t even stop. I just leave the room with my last words.
“No. I’m avoiding one.”
Part of me just wants to go home after that meeting. But the wiser part of me knows that’s a bad idea. I’d pace the floor, possibly throw something, and more or less polish off the whiskey bottle in the cabinet. Then I’d feel even worse than I do now. I’d still be angry as fuck, but hung over a toilet.
So I go back to work. From the second I walk into the building, people clear. My body language must be pretty fucking loud, because everyone is reading the message loud and clear.
Stay the fuck away.
But it’s not that I want to be completely left alone. So when I go into my office and find Amara there, hanging up fresh dry cleaning she was scheduled to pick up, I close the door before she can walk out.
“I take it that didn’t go well?” she asks.
I don’t answer. I just rake a hand through my hair and try to gain control of the storm inside me.
“There was another change to your schedule,” she says. “But you’ll be happy to know this was a good one. Your four o’clock canceled, so you have nothing pressing for the rest of the day.”
Fuck me. She would have to go and use a word likepressing.
Before I can think about what I am doing, I grab her, pulling her against me hard. My mouth crashes into her, stifling the gasp that just escaped her surprised lips, swallowing it whole.
