Konstantin’s head of security—a man named Boris who I’ve known for ten years—steps forward with his hands raised.
“Mr. Dimitri. What’s this about?”
“Where is he?” I demand, not wanting to bother with niceties.
Boris raises a bushy brow. “Mr. Konstantin is in his study. But you can’t just?—”
I don’t wait for him to finish. I walk past him toward the front door, but two guards move to block my path.
I don’t slow down.
The first guard reaches for my arm. I catch his wrist, twist, and use his own momentum to send him stumbling into his partner. They both go down in a tangle of limbs.
“Anyone else?” I ask the remaining guards.
No one moves.
I thought not.
The front door is unlocked and I walk through like I own the place (which I might, after tonight is over). I head down the marble hallway with its expensive art and antique furniture and past the sitting room and the dining room and the library.
The study at the back of the house is my true focus.
The door is closed but not locked. I can hear classical music playing inside. Mozart, maybe.
The door slams open hard enough to bang against the wall and Konstantin looks up from behind his desk, a crystal tumbler of scotch halfway to his lips.
He doesn’t look surprised or worried.
He looks—pleased.
“Nephew,” he greets me pleasantly, setting down his glass. “It’s a bit late for a visit, isn’t it?”
I throw the tablet onto his desk hard enough to make papers scatter, not even bothering to exchange niceties. He doesn’t fucking deserve it.
“Explain.”
He picks up the tablet and scrolls through the evidence. His expression doesn’t change. There’s no shock, denial, or even concern. There’s just mild interest, like he’s reviewing a business proposal.
Finally, he sets the tablet down and pours himself more scotch.
“You were never supposed to figure it out,” he says conversationally. “You were supposed to be too grief-stricken. Too focused on revenge. Too in love with your new bride to see the pattern.”
The casual admission—the complete lack of remorse—makes something dark and violent unfurl in my chest.
“Why?” The word comes out strangled. “Why fake his death? Why start a war? Why any of this?”
Konstantin takes a long sip of his scotch, savoring it. Like we’re having a friendly chat instead of the conversation that’s about to end with one of us dead.
“Because you were always the problem, Dimitri.” He says it so simply. So matter-of-factly. “Too strong. Too smart. Too beloved by the men. I could never move against you directly. They’d never accept it. The family would fracture. Chaos would follow.”
He stands, walking to the window with his glass and looking out at the grounds like a king surveying his domain.
“But if you died in the war? Or were killed by an Ashford? Or were conveniently eliminated by Alexei after discovering he was alive…” He shrugs. “Then I could take control of both families.”
“Through Alexei.” I say flatly, that familiar rage building up in me again.
“Through Alexei and the baby,” Konstantin corrects, turning to face me, looking impassive. “Alexei as the grieving brother seeking revenge for your death. The baby as the legitimate Volkov heir—everyone believes it’s yours by now, I assume. Vera as leverage over the Ashfords. Me as the wise uncle guiding young Alexei. Perfect control.”
