Arseny, who’s been unusually quiet, lets out a low whistle. “ThePakhanmust have made a deal with the devil himself,” he says, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Six months in a coma and then,” he snaps his fingers, “back among the living. Even Death doesn’t dare challenge Anatoly Belov.”
I shoot him a warning glance, but there’s a grain of truth in his irreverence. My father has always been… resilient. Unnaturally so.
“My father has crawled back from hell before,” I say. “This time is no different.”
“And now he’s back,” Timur says, his voice low with an admiration that borders on superstition. “He opened his eyes twice yesterday.”
I remember those moments. Standing beside the bed, watching as those steel-gray eyes—so like my own—fluttered open. They fixed on me with startling clarity before closing again. No words exchanged. None needed. The message was clear: not yet. ThePakhanwasn’t ready to relinquish his throne.
“Everyone thought he wouldn’t make it through the night,” I say, my voice cool despite the rage simmering beneath. “Some were counting on it.”
Arseny’s expression sobers immediately. He knows who I mean. The snake Tatiana, with her hollow sympathies and calculating eyes. My useless stepbrother, Filipp, already mentally dividing the empire that isn’t his to claim.
“I want surveillance doubled on Tatiana and Fillip,” I tell Timur. “Every call, every meeting, every whispered conversation. I want to know who they’re speaking to and why.”
Timur nods, his scarred face grim with understanding. “Consider it done.”
I shift slightly, my eyes flicking toward the wall of glass.
Arseny follows my gaze, then lets out a quiet chuckle. “Well… well… well, look who’s here early.”
She’s sitting just outside my office, oblivious to the way my attention has already fucking locked onto her. The way she sits—spine straight, legs crossed in a way that makes my mouth dry, one heel dangling off her foot like she couldn’t be bothered to care. Her head tilts slightly, glossy waves of dark hair spillingover her shoulder as she scrolls through her phone, completely unaware that she’s just become the center of my goddamn world.
Arseny makes a low, amused sound, like a man discovering a hidden weakness he intends to exploit.
“Jesus Christ, boss. You’re staring like you want to fuck her through the glass.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s not wrong.
Timur, being the smarter of the two, says nothing. Arseny, of course, is not Timur.
He leans in, lowering his voice like we’re conspiring. “That explains why you’re acting like a man who hasn’t slept in two days.”
I cut him a sharp look, but he only smirks.
“Which is it, boss? Can’t sleep because she’s in your bed or because she’s not?”
Timur exhales, the kind of long-suffering sigh of a man who knows he’s about to witness some violence.
I grip the edge of my desk, fighting the urge to put a bullet in Arseny’s knee. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
“Not when I’m entertained.” He nods toward Bella, who’s still blissfully unaware of the absolute fucking chaos she’s causing. “And this? This is very entertaining.”
I glance back at her. She shifts slightly, the movement sending a ripple of something hot and dark through me. She’s wearing a blazer—supposed to be professional, supposed to cover her up—but it does a shit job of it. Her tits are too fucking huge for the fabric to behave, the single button barely holding on, like it knows it’s fighting a losing battle.
I think about dragging her in here. About pressing her against my desk, making her forget whatever the fuck she was looking at on her phone. About how easy it would be to wrap my hand around that delicate throat and watch those blue eyes go wide.
And that’s when I realize—both of them are watching me.
Timur doesn’t react. But Arseny? He fucking grins.
“Oh, this is bad,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “This is really fucking bad.”
“Get out,” I mutter.
“How bad is it, though?” He leans back like he’s savoring a glass of whiskey. “Like, is it bad enough that if I told her you’ve been sitting here hard as a rock just from watching her breathe, you’d actually kill me? Or just wound me?”
I throw a stapler at his head. He dodges it with a laugh.
