He gives a thin smile, barely a twitch of his mouth. “Nothing at all.”
He’s lying. Before I can push the question again, he moves on as if the conversation never shifted. “Mikhail leaves for Italy in the morning.”
I straighten a little, my shoulders pulling back. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes,” he says, and he sets his glass down with a quiet tap. “I already told him.”
My jaw tightens, but I keep my expression still.
“You don’t give orders to my people behind my back,” my voice stays low, but the air between us changes.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Your people? He’s my son.”
“And he’s my brother,” I say, stepping a little closer. “You don’t get to move him around like a pawn without going through me.”
He huffs a small breath through his nose, annoyed but pretending he’s above it. “He’s needed in Italy. You don’t understand what’s happening there.”
I fold my arms, feeling the muscles in my shoulders tighten. “I understand enough to know you’re hiding something.”
His eyes sharpen in a way that tells me he didn’t like that response. His fingers tap once against the desk before he clasps his hands together again.
“Send him off,” he says. “Now.”
“No,” I say, steady. “He stays for the wedding.”
“He won’t,” he answers, leaning back slightly in his chair, the picture of control. “Because I told him not to.”
I take a slow breath, not out of patience, but because I’m close to flipping the desk over. This has nothing to do with business. He’s moving pieces around to isolate me, to pull support away from me before he makes whatever move he’s planning. And the center of that plan is obvious.
He wants Kira exposed.
I feel the decision settle in my chest as I lower my voice. “If you try to hurt her?—”
He cuts me off with a shrug, like he’s brushing lint from his jacket. “I don’t have to hurt her. Life will do that for me.”
His tone is casual, but the intent behind it isn’t. He grabs his glass again, lifts it, and turns his attention back to the window, dismissing me without even saying the words.
I stand there long enough for him to understand I’m not leaving because he ended the conversation. I’m leaving because if I stay, I’ll drag him across the desk and do something that can’t be undone.
Then I walk out and close the door behind me, calm on the outside and burning everywhere else.
Mikhail is waiting for me on the balcony outside the guest room, leaning on the railing with a cigarette between his fingers. He hasn’t lit it yet, just rolls it back and forth like he’s trying to keep his hands busy.
“I guess he told you,” he says when I step outside. His voice is low, and he doesn’t meet my eyes right away.
“Why didn’t you come to me first?” I ask. I don’t bother hiding the irritation; he hears it anyway.
He lifts one shoulder in a slow shrug. “He’s our father.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say, stepping beside him. I rest my hands on the railing, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
He finally lights the cigarette, flicks the ash once, and exhales a long stream of smoke into the cold air. His shoulders drop slightly, like the breath took something out of him.
“I was going to tell you,” he says. “He made it sound urgent. And… I think he’s right about one thing.”
My jaw tightens. “About what?”
“That something’s happening in Italy. Something big.” He glances at me, tapping his thumb against the railing. “And I should be there.”
