Page 138 of Nemesis

“Might want to check on that new ally of yours, Mikhail.” A shallow chuckle beside me. “I heard reports that the Siderov Pakhan is dead.”

What?

“That’s correct,” a raspy, feminine voice says. “The deal is mine.”

He hasn’t been sleeping.

His exhaustion is evident, even through the grainy pixels of the screen.

I’ve spent the last two days working with Solokov’s inner circle to organize this joint venture. My eyes ache. My chest hurts. Every single hour that passes weighs on me like a hot stone.

Ninety-one hours since I last held Vasiliy in my arms.

Seventy-two hours since my cousin was taken.

Sixty-nine hours since I let go of my father’s hand.

I know the cost of every second Kirill is held captive by Popov. Even as I sit still in this room, I can’t help but think about the methods they’re using to loosen his tongue and punish him for his blood.

“I don’t understand,” Vasiliy’s uncle says, squinting his eyes at his monitor. “Are you implying that this cunt is calling the shots? Can’t you afford better whores, Mikhail?”

He looks nothing like Vasiliy. Where my man’s skin is pale below the dark swirl of tattoos, his skin takes on an orange hue through the camera, and his white hair is combed forward in an effort to hide the thinning back.

The insults bounce off my skin. I’ve heard them my whole life. Men like him are a dime a dozen. Mikhail, however, straightens by my side. I bet he’s unused to hearing crude slights go unpunished. His eyes shift into a predatory gleam.

Through the screen, I see Vasiliy’s breathing pick up, as though he’s one second from trying to rip out his uncle’s neck all over again. I shoot him a wink through the camera in an effort to calm him down.

And it seems to.

Unfortunately, the gesture appears to have the opposite effect on his uncle.

“You know what? You can have your trade routes. I’ll take the loss. Obviously, you don’t have the head for business I thought you did, if you’re letting your dick lead you around!” he explodes, slamming the table in front of him.

My heart rate rises.

It’s okay. We prepared for this outcome.

“I see,” Mikhail says beside me. It’s hard to reconcile this cold, calculated version with the one I’ve seen melt beneath his wife’s touch. “Unfortunately, I can’t allow partners to go about breaking bargains at their will—the optics—surely, you understand.” He waves his hand in feigned indifference towards the screen. “So I regret to inform you that this will be received as an act of war.”

I knew the strategy before starting the call, went through every possible outcome with Mikhail’s second-in-command, Ivan, but hearing the words spoken out loud is uncanny.

“Excuse me?” Morozov’s eyes widen into round saucers.

Vasiliy’s eyes double. His scruff has grown thick and unruly, making him look a more brutal type of handsome.

Fuck, I miss him.

So much, it hurts.

“Is that question rhetorical or legitimate?” Mikhail drawls.

There’s something in the Morozov Pakhan’s eyes that reminds me not to look away. The outcomes of this meeting start filtering across his face in the tense quiet, and I have no idea which direction he’ll march into. He calls to one of his men standing out of view.

At the rate I’m picking them, the scabs on my knuckles will never heal.

“Anton.”

“Yes, sir?” the unseen voice responds.