“I know that,” I admit. “And I will rise to the challenge.” I mean it, too. I can handle the Ghost and whatever else the old man leaves behind.
“Not if you allow yourself to be led around by your dick. Not if you keep seeing that server. It’s time to cut her loose. Anyone or anything clouding your judgment has to go.”
His focus on Evelina is interesting, but my father’s always been wary of women draining our time and focus, which is why I suspect he’s angling for an arranged marriage. A union based on power. A wife who is an asset.
“I know you’ll do things differently than I did,” he says. “Your generation always does. You want cybercrime and digital operations instead of the old ways. You want to build something cleaner.” His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. Change is inevitable. I’ve accepted that. But some things don’t change,syn. Legacy. Loyalty. The willingness to sacrifice everything, including the things you want, for the family’s survival.”
“I’ve never put anything above this family.” The words come out defensive. Just because my ways are different doesn’t make me any less dedicated.
“I know you haven’t. That’s why I’m here.” He glances toward the windows, the city beyond. “Last night, when I saw you with that girl, I didn’t see my son the strategist. I saw a man distracted. A man compromised.” He looks back at me. “Women are a weakness. They force us to choose between duty and desire.”
A grim silence follows his words, echoing the thoughts I’ve been avoiding. Evelina has gotten under my skin in ways that make me reckless. Made me kill Marco. Made me drive an ice pick through Abram’s hand. Made me bring her here instead of bringing her to our basement.
“Prove to me you’re worthy of wearing my crown.” His hand rises again, cups the side of my face briefly before falling away. The gesture is so unexpected, so unlike him, I almost don’t know how to respond.
“You know I am.”
“I’m hosting dinner tomorrow night at the estate,” he says, stepping back and straightening his suit jacket as if the moment never happened. “The Morozov family is visiting from Russia. Important business contacts. I’d like you to join us.”
It’s not really a request, but it’s not an order either.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“Good.” He crosses to the elevator, presses the call button. The doors slide open immediately. He steps inside, turns to face me. “You’re more like me than you realize, Kirill. You’ll realize it sooner than later.”
That’s high praise coming from my father. But what he hasn’t figured out is I’m not interested in being like him. I will be better.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
DINARA
The smellof coffee is the first thing I register. Rich and dark, cutting through the fog in my head.
I almost let myself sink back into unconsciousness, trying to chase the remnants of a dream I can’t quite remember, until something cold closes around my ankle with a decisive click.
My eyes snap open and like that, harsh reality intrudes.
I’m on a bed, in a strange room with floor-to-ceiling windows and pale gray walls. Sunlight streams through the glass, making my head throb in protest.
And crouched at the foot of the bed, securing something to my ankle, is Kirill.
“What the hell is that?” The words scrape from my dry throat.
“Good morning … or should I say afternoon. You slept in.” His eyes flick up to me before returning to whatever he’s doing with the chain. “Don’t get too excited. Nothing kinky. Yet. You were impressive last night with your breaking and entering … not to mention your knife skills. So I’m not taking any chances today.”
I blink. Trying to understand what’s happening.
“You’re chaining me to a bed?”
“Better than the chair, don’t you think?” He finishes with the lock and stands, rolling his shoulders like he’s working out a kink. “I’m securing one leg, but the chain is long enough that you can reach the bathroom and the meals my housekeeper will bring. You’ll be free to move around the room. Just don’t get any ideas about breaking out of here.”
I want to tell him to fuck off, want to say something that will knock the arrogant expression off his face, but the words die in my throat when I look at him.
His crisp white dress shirt is unbuttoned, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the intricate tattoos that wind up his ribs, across his shoulders, down his arms. Black dress pants hang low on his hips, the belt not yet fastened. His dark hair is damp from a recent shower, a few strands falling across his forehead. He’s barefoot, like he dressed hastily and couldn’t be bothered with the rest.
He looks like a god carved from marble and sin, and I’m sure I look like roadkill.
