His thumb drags across my cheekbone, the touch almost tender despite the steel in his eyes. “I don’t condone what my family was involved with, but unless you come clean, we’re at an impasse. So what will it be, solnyshko?”
His offer is tempting, but how can I trust him? It could be bullshit, a play to protect his family’s legacy.
But I am curious...
“Why were you asking me if I was the Ghost last night? Who is it you’re after?”
He scowls. “Don’t worry about that right now. Worry about yourself.”
“Oh, trust me, I am.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I know better than to trust a man who hunted me down last night, drugged me, and has me chained to a bed half-naked.”
Kirill shrugs as if none of this concerns him. He stands, the mattress shifting beneath him.
“I have things to do today,” he says simply. “I suggest you spend the day thinking about my offer and how limited your choices are. Have a good day, solnyshko,” he rasps, leaving the room.
The door closes behind him and the lock clicks into place.
Kirill’s offer should feel like progress, but all I feel is the weight of an impossible choice. Tell him everything and hope hekeeps his word, or stay silent and rot in this room until he breaks me another way.
Even if he means what he says about helping me find answers, I can’t forget what he is. A Baronov. And in this world, blood and loyalty come before everything else, including the truth.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
KIRILL
Varvara Morozova smilesat me from across the table for the third time in ten minutes, and I’m starting to understand why my father seated us directly opposite each other instead of side by side.
So I’d have to look at her.
Ruslan presides from the head of the table like a king holding court. Vasily Morozov sits to his right, silver-haired and sharp-eyed. Irina Morozova to his left, diamonds at her throat, the picture of refined Moscow wealth. And their twenty-something daughter, Varvara, between them. Porcelain skin, delicate features, pretty in a totally forgettable way. She’s dressed in head-to-toe beige cashmere, which kind of sums up her personality perfectly.
My father said this dinner was important. That I needed to meet his new business partners from Russia, but what their business is together, I still don’t know.
“Kirill.” Vasily grins at me across the table, butchering the delicate fish on his plate. “Your father has been telling us about your work modernizing the bratva’s operations. Bringingeverything into the digital age and diversifying the family’s portfolio. Impressive.”
Funny, I’ve never heard those words of praise from my father.
“Someone has to,” I say, reaching for my wine. A subtle dig at my father, who clearly dragged me all the way here to perform like a trained dog. I get that he wants to expand operations in Russia, that the Morozovs control shipping routes and have political connections. But every minute I’m sitting here making small talk is a minute I’m not spending hunting for the Ghost.
Or dealing with the captive locked in my penthouse.
“Exactly right.” Vasily nods enthusiastically. “The old ways served their purpose, but times change. You can’t run a twenty-first-century operation with twentieth-century thinking.”
Varvara glances at me, then quickly looks away when our eyes meet. She’s done it four times now since we sat down. Shy little glances, like she’s been told to make eye contact but doesn’t quite have the nerve.
She’s the perfect portrait of a bratva bride, a woman designed to sit quietly at a table and never cause a scene.
But there’s nothing more to her. No fire. No edge.
Evelina is all sharp angles and fuck-you attitude with a body that makes me forget why I’m supposed to be angry at her. A riot of color in a world of grayscale.
Why am I even comparing them?
Irina turns her attention to me, her smile devoid of warmth. “We were just talking about it last night, weren’t we, Varvara?” When she looks at her mother, confused, Irina gives her a hard stare. “About embracing change, remember, darling?” Then to me, “Varvara studied interior design at the Stroganov Academy. One of the most prestigious programs in Moscow, as you surely know. She’s very adaptable. Understands the importance ofcreating a proper home, of supporting her family’s position in society.”
I don’t know shit about the Stroganov Academy, but I nod because what else can I do.
