When I turn, I see the man stepping out is older but built like he could still break someone in half with a single swing. Every movement deliberate, slow, confident, like a predator. The noise in the lobby seems to fade as he walks toward us, each step echoing off marble and glass.
He looks first at Artyom, then at me. And the smile that curves his mouth is the kind that is not a welcome.
CHAPTER TEN
Artyom
Boris Petrov looks exactly how I remember him—too big for his suit, too loud for the room, a man built to fill space and ruin the air around him. He walks like he still owns every street he ever stepped on; the fabric strains over his shoulders like it’s trying to escape. The smell of smoke and expensive aftershave hits me as he approaches, and my stomach turns on itself. Every step he takes grates on me. I can already hear the arrogance in his voice before he even opens his mouth.
When he finally reaches me, he grabs my hand in a grip that’s meant to hurt. It’s a petty move, the kind of thing he does to remind people of his power. I don’t flinch, and I know it annoys him because his knuckles tighten for a beat before he lets go. The smile that follows is too wide, his teeth flashing gold when he grins, and all I can think about is how much I’d like to knock one out.
He looks pleased with himself, proud of the little performance, like he’s checking whether the old intimidation still works. All it does is remind me why I could never marry into his family.
“Artyom Morozov,” he says, voice carrying across the marble floor. “Didn’t think you’d have the balls to show your face here after the stunt you pulled.”
I let the words sit between us before replying. “Good to see you too, Boris.”
His eyes flick toward Kira. And just like that, the temperature shifts.
She’s standing half a step behind me, trying to hold herself straight under the weight of his stare. Her hands are at her sides, nails pressing into her palms. I can feel her pulse even without touching her—it’s in the way her chest rises, the way her throat moves when she swallows.
Boris doesn’t bother hiding the sneer that follows. “So, this is her? The nurse from Brooklyn?” He laughs under his breath, a sound too low to be friendly. “You replaced my daughter with…this?”
Something hot flickers up my spine, sharp and fast, before I can kill it. I’ve dealt with worse insults, bigger threats, but something about this feels different. Maybe it’s the way Kira freezes, or maybe it’s the satisfaction on his face when he sees it. Either way, it makes my hands itch.
Irina doesn’t say a word. She just stands beside her father like a statue, chin high, the smile gone from her mouth but still ghosting behind her eyes.
I shift just enough to block part of his view of Kira. My voice comes out low, steady, nothing like the anger crawling through my chest. “Watch your mouth, Petrov.”
He arches an eyebrow, mock amusement stretching across his face. “Touchy.” His gaze drags over Kira again, slower this time, like he’s inspecting something he already owns. “Don’t worry, girl, I’m not the one you need to impress. But I doubt he’ll be half as interested once the novelty wears off.”
The words hit harder than they should. Not because they matter, but because I see what they do to her. Kira’s jaw tightens; she looks down, then forces her eyes back up again, pretending she isn’t affected. It’s a small thing, that defiance, but it makes something in my chest pull tight.
I step closer, close enough that the scent of his aftershave burns my nose. “You’re out of line.”
“Out of line?” he repeats, laughing now. “You break off an alliance between two of the most powerful families in New York, and you call me out of line?”
His voice is rising, drawing attention. The lobby goes quieter, the sound of heels and conversations thinning into a low hum. Heads start to turn. I can feel Irina’s eyes on me, cool and sharp,and I know exactly what she’s thinking—don’t humiliate me more than you already have.
Kira stands just behind my shoulder, tense and still, her hand brushing against the side of my arm like she isn’t sure whether to hold on or move away. I can feel the tremor in her breath every time Boris’s voice cuts through the air. She’s trying to look composed, but I can see the faint color rising in her neck, the way she’s fighting to stay calm while being viciously attacked on all fronts. It makes me hate him even more.
I keep my tone level. “I never promised anything to you.”
He takes a step forward, close enough that I catch the sour trace of alcohol on his breath, and for a second I think he might actually try to swing. “Your father thought otherwise.”
“My father is not me.”
The silence that follows is the kind that hums in your bones. I can see the reflection of the chandelier light in the glass doors behind him, the faint tremor in his jaw as he decides whether to push this further.
Then, inevitably, he looks back at Kira. “She doesn’t look like much.”
Her chin lifts before I can stop it. I can almost feel the burn of her pride through the air between us.
“Good thing you’re not the one marrying me,” she says softly.
The sound of Mikhail choking on his laugh behind us breaks the tension for half a second, but Boris doesn’t find it funny. His eyes narrow, as he drags them from her to me, disbelief turning to something darker.
“You let her talk like that?” he says. “To me?”
