I untie the restraints and lift her into my arms. She’s warm and pliant against my chest, trusting me even when unconscious. I carry her to the spare bedroom and settle her on the bed, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.
A piece of hair falls across her face. I brush it back without thinking, my thumb grazing her cheek. She makes a soft sound, almost a whimper, and shifts toward my touch, seeking comfort.
I force myself out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me before I do something stupid like climb into bed with her.
Beyond the window, the city wakes. Millions of people starting their day, all living separate lives, all keeping secrets. Just like the woman sleeping in my spare bedroom. The woman who came here looking for her mother.
Or at least that’s what she says.
Could she have ties to the Ghost?
The pattern doesn’t fit. The Ghost is methodical and strategic. Breaking into retired traffickers’ apartments for decades-old information doesn’t fit their pattern.
A phone call jolts me out of my thoughts.
“Sir.” Security’s voice comes through when I answer. “Your father is here. He’s demanding to come up.”
Blyat. Exactly what I need right now. But he’s my father and pakhan, and after last night’s mess I can’t put him off any longer.
“Send him up,” I say.
I drain my coffee and set the mug down harder than necessary, bracing for whatever shitstorm is about to walk through my door. I glance toward the spare bedroom. Evelina’s clothes from last night are gone, folded and put away. Between the drugs and exhaustion, she’ll sleep through it. My father won’t know she’s here.
The elevator opens and Ruslan strides in like he owns it. His suit is immaculate despite the early hour, but there’s fury written in every line of his body. He stops in the middle of my living room, feet planted, arms crossed.
I stay where I am, leaning against the kitchen counter. Let him come to me.
“You want to explain what the fuck happened last night?”
“Good morning to you too,” I respond, taking a sip from my mug. “Coffee?”
“You crashed my poker game. Stabbed Abram through the hand with an ice pick. Disappeared for hours without answering a single call. You owe me an explanation.”
“You were there. You saw it.” I set my mug down, meet his gaze head-on. “Abram disrespected Evelina.”
“Who cares? She’s a nobody, a stupid server. Abram has been loyal to me for decades, and you drove an ice pick through his hand because he yelled at some waitress?” He leans forward, palms flat on the marble countertop. “That’s not like you, Kirill. I want to know what’s going on.”
At the time, I was sure Abram grabbed her ass or something by the way Evelina went white and dropped the bottle. Now I understand. It wasn’t what Abram said; it was what she’d seen. Those cathedral domes inked on his forearms, the same symbol burned into her nightmares.
“Maybe I overreacted.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Dealing with the Ghost has me on edge. Abram ran his mouth at the wrong time and I snapped. It won’t happen again.”
My father straightens. “I saw the way you looked at her when you walked into that game.” His voice levels out, flat and stripped of emotion. “What is this woman to you?”
“What does it matter? Unless you’re interested yourself.”
He chuckles darkly. “If that’s what you think, you don’t understand me at all. I’m concerned you’re distracted when you need to be focused more than ever.”
“She’s nothing to me,” I say, raking a hand through my hair. “An employee I felt protective of when Abram berated her in front of everyone.”
He sighs, then does something I don’t expect. He moves around the island, closing the distance between us until we’re standing face to face. “Kirill. You’re my son. My heir. Everything I’ve built, everything this family has become, it will be yours.” His hand rises and grips my shoulder. The touch is firm, grounding. “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye. I know you think I’m too hard on you, that I’m stuck in the past.”
My father’s shoulders drop an inch, shedding the armor he usually wears. This isn’t the speech I expected, and his words catch me off guard.
“Maybe I am hard on you,” he concedes. “My father was hard on me. Harder than I’ve ever been on you or your brothers. He believed the only way to prepare a man to lead was to throw him into the fire and see if he came out steel or ash.” His grip tightens. “I didn’t agree with all his methods, but I understood what he was trying to teach me. A pakhan can’t afford weakness. Can’t afford distractions. The men who follow you, the enemies who test you, they look for cracks. For soft spots they can exploit.”
“Wanting to do things differently doesn’t make me any less fit to lead.” We’ve never had a conversation like this, but it feels good to say it out loud without the usual roar of an argument drowning out the point.
“I allowed you to handle the Ghost situation because you’re the future. This is the first of many impossible challenges ahead.” He drops his hand from my shoulder but doesn’t step back. “I won’t be here forever, Kirill. Someday, maybe sooner than either of us wants, you’ll be pakhan. And when that day comes, you’ll face things worse than the Ghost. You’ll face them alone. Without me standing behind you.”
