“I’ve picked up a few habits,” I say.
He gets up and walks the length of the desk, slowly coming towards me, and stops close enough that the tobacco is on my skin. “Do you know what happens to arrogant men, Artyom?”
“I’ve killed enough to know.” The words come out flat.
His eyes go sharp, like something there just woke up inside him. “Irina loves you. And she’s such a pretty girl.”
“She doesn’t love me, she barely knows me,” I answer.
“That’s enough.” He taps the desk with two fingers, as if marking time.
“She despises Mikhail, they have a history, he did something to offend her in the past,” I say.
“That’s not your problem.” He shrugs. “This is politics.”
“It is my problem when I have to share her bed.” The sentence lands harder than I expected.
He snorts. “When did you start caring whose bed you’re in? You’ve slept with women across half of Europe.”
My jaw tightens. “There’s a difference between someone you sleep with and a contract you must sign. Don’t confuse them.”
“You sound like a petulant child,” he says.
I step closer until his chin tilts up to meet my eyes and the room narrows. “A child would have left your empire in ashes, not made it more powerful.”
He studies me a long time; the quiet between us feels sharp. Finally: “You forget—men like Boris demand respect. Refuse his daughter and he’ll take what you have.”
“We are allied anyway, Father, why the fuck would I agree to marry his daughter?” I ask.
He shakes his head, slowly. “Power isn’t permanent. One bad move, one broken promise, and everything you’ve built falls apart.”
“I will not marry Irina Petrova,” I say, plain.
He studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding whether it’s worth repeating himself, then turns and walks back to his chair. When he sits, his voice is calm again. “Fine. Then tell me—what should I tell Boris when he calls tomorrow to confirm?”
I set the glass down and look at him. “Tell him I’m already engaged.”
His head snaps up. “To whom?”
“You taught me discretion,” I say. “Consider this one of your lessons.”
“Don’t make a fool of me.”
“I’m not,” I answer. “I’m simply… protecting what we have.”
He stares at me, trying to read whether that’s bravado or a plan. “If she doesn’t exist,” he says, “Boris will tear us apart.”
“Of course she exists. I’m not a psycho that’d lie and say I had a fiancée if I didn’t. I just don’t bother sharing my personal life with you.”
Vladimir exhales through his nose, something between anger and reluctant amusement. “You’ll have to bring her to Italy then and present her to our allies,” he says, dry.
“Will do,” I say as I head for the door.
I don’t look back. The corridor outside is colder; the chandeliers throw hard light across the marble. Portraits of men who thought fear would save them look down on me; it never did.
By the gate my phone is already in my hand. I dial Lev with one motion.
“Da, boss.”
