Page 8 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

I glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“I was told you were intelligent,” he says with a little smirk. He's unfazed, damn him. “Now I know they undersold it.”

I have half a mind to get up and punch his chest, but that wouldn't do much for me. I settle for what I hope is a cruel smile. “That’s almost flattering. Are we bonding?”

He snorts. “No.”

“What a pity.”

That almost-smile touches his mouth again, like he resents enjoying himself.

He opens a second, thinner file where tabs mark jurisdictions. Cyprus. Latvia. Russia. UAE. Italy. Italy catches my eye. He notices. “The Moretti family is Italy’s most powerful. They’re already asking questions,” he says.

My stomach drops. “Why would Italians care about me?”

“Because Italians care about ports, fuel, movement, and clean paper. Your father promised access through structures he buried in my system.” He taps the file. “Men like the Morettis don’t care who you are. They care whether your signature opens a corridor.”

I stare at him. “You’re telling me my father sold me into your infrastructure.”

He traces his finger over one of the papers. “I’m telling you he used you as continuity. If he’d sold you into my infrastructure, it would have been simpler.”

I grip the armrests until my fingers ache. “And you?”

His expression stills. “What about me?”

“What am I to you?” I ask. “Since we’re all being brutally honest tonight. Asset? Problem? Leverage point? A woman you had dragged across Moscow because my name sits in the right places on paper?”

He doesn’t answer quickly. When he does speak, his voice is flatter than before. “At the moment, you’re central.”

I let out one short laugh. “That’s a terrible answer.”

“It’s the honest one.”

“No,” I say, leaning forward because fear is getting too close and anger still works better. “The honest answer is that my father used me, you need me, and nobody here thought I might deserve a choice before armed men started climbing the stairs to my apartment.”

His eyes hold mine. “Would you have come if I asked nicely?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve answered your own question.”

Before I can come up with a self-preserving response, he gets up and moves to the fire. He plants one hand on the mantel and looks down for a second. “You asked who I am,” he says.

I say nothing. “My grandfather came up through prison routes and black-market fuel when this city was breaking into private kingdoms. My father inherited force and turned it into ports, trucking, metals, and private contracting. I took what they built and made it survive audits, sanctions, boards, and men who confuse appetite with discipline.”

He turns and looks at me. When he speaks, his voice doesn’t change, and yet I can swear it grows colder and softer and even more dangerous. I shiver once again. “I don’t move drugs through my primary lanes or tolerate chaos inside revenue corridors. I don’t let men freelance around core assets. Your father knew that. He also knew exactly what would happen if he threaded you into my legal spine and disappeared.”

The fire shifts behind him.

“He made me keep you alive,” he observes.

The fact that he’s talking about my life like it’s nothing but a toy is the last straw. I’m on my feet so fast the chair scrapes hard against the floor. “Don’t you dare put that on me.”

His gaze drops briefly to the chair, then comes back to my face. “Sit down.”

“No.”

“Elena.”