The meeting drags on for over an hour. We study footage, compare reports, and pull apart every detail we have. The men who took Lucas didn’t stumble into the situation. They moved with intention, and I know they were trained men, not amateurs. Someone with reach and money sent them. Someone who either doesn’t know who they’re provoking or knows exactly who I am and thinks I won’t retaliate.
Neither option sits well with me.
By the time we finish, nothing feels resolved. No names, no clear leads, just the knowledge that this wasn’t random. And even with my men discussing next steps, I feel something else tugging at me, a pull that has nothing to do with strategy, and it has nothing to do with my father who called for me.
Kira is upstairs.
I leave the office first and let Mikhail wrap up the last instructions. The corridor outside is dim and quiet, the house settling into that late-night stillness where every sound carries. I start toward the stairs, expecting silence, but halfway up I hear their voices drifting down, laughter mixed in. It stops me halfway up the stairs.
After everything that happened tonight, she’s laughing with them. It hits me in a way I don’t anticipate, something simple and tight low in my chest, I don’t have a name for and wouldn’t admit to even if I did.
I stand there for a moment letting the sound calm something in me. Then I force myself to turn away and head back down the stairs, because Vladimir sent for me earlier, and ignoring him is a mistake I’m not willing to make tonight. He doesn’t reach out this late unless something is wrong, or unless he intends to make it wrong, so I can’t put this off.
I make my way through the hallway, the house quiet except for the low hum of the lights and the distant murmur of the women upstairs. By the time I reach the east side of the house, the warmth from hearing Kira’s laugh has faded, replaced by the sharp focus I always need around him.
He’s in his study with a glass of whiskey, staring out the window like he’s thinking about something far away. He doesn’t look at me when I walk in.
“Sit,” he says.
I stay where I am. He notices but doesn’t comment, just lets the silence drag long enough that it feels like a test. He always does this, waits to see if I’ll fill the silence for him, knowing very well I never do.
“I hear things about a certaindistractionyou have,” he finally says, turning the glass in his hand.
He doesn’t say her name, but he doesn’t have to. I feel my shoulders tense.
“She’s not anyone’s concern but mine,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Stay out of it.”
He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “Everything connected to you is my concern.” He turns his head at that, slow, like he’s actually taking me in for the first time. He’s amused.
“That’s none of your business,” I say.
“Sheismy business,” he snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the room. “She’s in the way.”
My hands curl slowly at my sides, I keep my stance relaxed, but my whole body is tight.
“Stop,” I say quietly, stepping closer to his desk. My shoulders tense and my hands curl at my sides, but my voice stays even. “Choose your next words carefully.”
He finally looks up at me, sets his glass down with a soft clink, and laces his fingers together like he’s about to discuss numbers instead of the woman I love. He leans back slightly, studying me with that blank, practiced expression he uses when he thinks he has the upper hand.
“This girl will cost you alliances,” he says, meeting my stare without flinching. “She’ll cost you power. She’ll cost you respect. Let her go before it becomes a problem you can’t fix.”
I feel my jaw lock. I shift my weight forward, planting my feet, and the certainty settles in my chest so clearly it almost steadies me.
“No,” I say, holding his gaze.
His eyes narrow just a little, the only sign he didn’t expect that answer. He tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to pinpoint where the shift happened, where his influence stopped working.
“So that’s it,” he says. “That’s your final word.”
“Yes.”
He gives one slow nod, his hand sliding back to the glass but not lifting it. That nod says more than anything he’s said aloud. It tells me he already has a plan. It tells me he thinks he’s still in control. It tells me he’s not done.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says, his tone flat while his eyes stay focused and sharp. “But you’ll learn.”
He lifts the whiskey to his mouth with a steady hand, and something in the way he says it gets under my skin. It’s the voice he uses when he’s already made a decision and is waiting for the fallout.
I shift my stance and watch him carefully. “What are you planning?”
