Page 46 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

My knuckles scraped against the rough surface. Skin tore. Blood beaded up slowly, one drop, two drops, trickling down between my fingers.

It hurt. But it cleared some of the suffocating weight in my chest.

At least she agreed to stay. As long as she kept showing up in this house, kept spending time with Nadia, I had the patience to wear her down.

Kitten, the game's just getting started.

Three days.

I waited three days.

Dmitri's email sat in my inbox, the attachment waiting quietly. I raised my coffee cup, took a sip. Stone cold. The bitterness wouldn't dissolve on my tongue.

I set the cup on the edge of the desk, opened the attachment. The screen's cold glow washed over my face as I scanned line by line.

Anna Bennett.

Queens. Lives alone. One son, four years old.

Attached was a photo of the boy. A small kid sitting on a blanket, honey-blonde hair sticking up in messy tufts, gray-blue eyes bright and clear, a little dimple denting his right cheek when he smiled.

I stared at that photo. Didn't move.

Dmitri laughed on the other end of the phone. "Boss, this kid really looks like you."

I didn't answer. My knuckles tapped the desk, a soft rhythm.

Yes. Those gray-blue eyes. The way his cheek tilted when he smiled. The face I'd seen in the mirror as a boy—staring back at me from this tiny photo, grinning.

Five years. The timeline matched perfectly.

I suddenly remembered what she'd said. One-night stand.

I pressed my hand over the screen, my fingertip tracing the boy's tousled hair through the cold glass. Something swelled in my chest, pressing against my ribs until they ached.

One-night stand.

I wanted to laugh. Really laugh. That urge bubbled up from my chest, lodged in my throat, like it was going to tear me open.

She'd hidden my son for four years. Raised him alone.

I grabbed the cigarette pack, fumbled before pulling one out.

The lighter flicked open with a snap, flame dancing at my fingertips.

I dragged deep, nicotine sliding down my throat. Cold smoke filled my lungs, but it couldn't crush the wild pounding of my heart trying to crack my ribs.

Ivan Volkov had a son.

"Boss, why'd you go quiet?" Dmitri's annoying voice piped up again. "Don't tell me this kid doesn't line up with you?"

I crushed the cigarette, my fingers grinding the paper out of shape.

Impossible.

The second I saw those eyes, I knew. This was absolutely my blood. You can't fake what runs in your veins.

I stubbed out the cigarette, tugged at my tight collar. "Dmitri, I need you to do something else."