"Mr. Volkov, you've been sitting on that moldy throne so long, your brain's rotted right along with it."
I slowed my words. "That Derek you claim is 'more like a Volkov'? He's nothing but a limp-dick who can't even control his own wife—ran off to seduce his ex-fiancée on his wedding night. Going to New Jersey for real estate? He's going there to wag his tail for local money launderers. As for Nikolai—"
I let out a cold laugh, my gaze raking over the iron-faced old man on the sofa. "He took the Pakhan seat by crushing everyenemy's throat with his bare hands, not by marrying some porcelain doll to prop himself up. The Volkov table is big, sure, but what it really can't stomach are senile fossils with one foot in the grave who still feel the need to criticize young people's figures and haute couture."
"You— You crass little bitch—" Peter smashed his glass on the table, veins bulging at his temple, his entire face twisting into an ugly liver color.
"Keep this goddamn dinner for your golden boy's funeral."
I didn't even spare him another glance. I grabbed my clutch, turned, seized Nikolai's tie, and yanked hard. "We're leaving. This place reeks of death. Every second here takes years off my life."
Nikolai rose with my pull. He didn't even blink at his old man who looked ready to stroke out, letting me drag him like some giant predator all the way out of that suffocating ancestral house.
I threw the car door shut.
Sasha in the driver's seat didn't even lift an eyelid. Just smoothly started the engine.
I collapsed back into the silk leather seat, arms wrapped tight around myself, a stick of nitroglycerin ready to explode. After the adrenaline faded, the extreme hunger mixed with residual rage made my stomach cramp violently.
"Go ahead and yell at me." I stared at the black trees flying past the window, teeth clenched. "I screwed up your carefully planned family power play and told the former Pakhan to get in his coffin. Screw the triple salary—just dump me on a Maryland highway and let me be homeless."
The car fell into eerie silence.
One second. Two seconds.
Suddenly, a low, chest-deep rumble broke the quiet.
I turned my head in shock.
Nikolai was leaning against the opposite door. He'd loosened that tie I'd yanked crooked, those dark gray eyes glinting in the dim dashboard light, lips curved into a huge arc.
He was laughing.
And it was the kind of unguarded, utterly relieved laugh of someone who'd dropped the Pakhan mask completely.
"You're actually laughing?" My temper flared even hotter. I lunged over and punched his rock-hard chest. "Aren't you afraid your petty old man will shoot me full of holes!"
"I'm just replaying the old bastard's face."
His long arm reached out, yanking me by the waist into his lap with zero resistance.
His rough palm clamped the back of my head like an iron vise, forcing my sweat-damp face into the warm hollow of his neck. That low, textured voice wrapped in cold cedar scent crashed into my eardrum. "Vivienne, you were like a wildcat just now. Sexy as hell."
My breath hitched hard.
All the ammunition I'd loaded up to fight with him lost its fuse, completely disarmed by that one sentence.
The tension in my muscles involuntarily melted under his soothing touch. The adrenaline from excessive anger morphed in my veins, burning into something sticky and hot that left my mouth dry.
I lifted my head from his warm neck, curled my fingers, and poked his solid chest without mercy.
"But he called me a plus-size toy." I narrowed my eyes, refusing to back down. Instead, I leaned forward half an inch, my chest brushing suggestively against his silk tie. "Mr. Volkov, your father's taste is clearly as rotten as his temper. I'm perfect in every single place that matters."
Nikolai's Adam's apple rolled hard.
The amused glint in his eyes darkened instantly, replaced by dangerously predatory flames. That big hand on my waist slid down shamelessly over the velvet fabric, stopping at that tempting curve and squeezing without apology.
"He's definitely blind." Nikolai lowered his head, nose nearly grazing my lips, voice hoarse enough to ignite the air. "Only weak, pathetic men go after stick-figure skeletons."
