Page 8 of The Pakhan's Secret Baby

“I did,” she replies, a little laugh in her voice. “There’s something about those paintings… the emotion, the drama. I can’t get enough of it.”

I listen, surprised by how sharp and passionate she is for someone so young.

There's real depth there.

If she's still in college, that means younger than I thought.

Still, I don’t pull away or feel bad.

That was incredible sex, and so far I haven't seen anything I dislike.

She shifts closer. “How did you get the Surikov?” she asks. “I mean… that painting belongs in the Tretyakov Gallery. Howdoes someone even own the original?” When she turns into my chest fully, I roll to my side to hold her.

I stroke her back slowly. “Let’s just say I know the right people, and I was willing to pay what it took.”

Emory lets out a quiet, sleepy laugh. “That’s such a vague answer.”

"Mmm," I offer, but nothing more. I find it doesn’t go well when I explain to women what I do for a living and how I make my fortune.

For tonight I want to just enjoy this moment. Morning, and sunrise, will come soon enough.

Eventually she shifts against me and yawns, trying to sit up. “I should go. Irina’s probably looking for me, and I have to drive home tonight.”

“You’re not driving anywhere,” I say firmly, tightening my arm around her. “You’ve had too much to drink. I’ll have one of my men take you home safely if you insist on going home." I’m not about to let any cop in this city think for a single second that I got this much younger woman drunk at my club and let her drive home.

She hesitates. “I don’t know… I shouldn’t?—”

"I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're worried about." I press a kiss to the top of her head. We're not soulmates, and this isn't some love-at-first-sight romance, but neither am I foolish enough to risk my reputation.

I can't see her face, but I sense her relaxing. “Alright.... But I have to get up at sunrise. My father will kill me." She yawnsagain and snuggles deeper into my chest. In under five minutes she's snoring, passed out cold.

I stay awake, listening to her snoring, and wondering what I'm doing with my life. I’ve spent twenty-five years building my empire from nothing.

Blood, deals, alliances, betrayals—everything to carve out power that no one can take from me.

And for what?

When I die, who takes it over?

I have no son, no heir.

Not a single man in this organization I can trust to lead the way I would.

I could never repeat the mistakes I made with my first marriage. That woman was poison I drank down, and it almost killed me.

But someone like Emory… she understands beauty, history, power.

She has fire in her.

I can already imagine her standing beside me, not just in bed but in life.

Yet she’s so fucking young.

Barely more than a girl.

I’m old enough to be her father.

My time for settling down, for building something real again, feels long past.