Page 120

Please.

Your little sun, Ilya

Kento

I’m in a mood. A bad one.

And nobody benefits when I’m in a bad mood, least of all the men currently decorated across the floor of this room. When I’m angry, I tend to lose control of my hands. It’s an unfortunate habit. I don’t usually feel the need to kill anyone. Most people simply aren’t worth the effort, but piss me off badly enough, and something in me snaps. Whoever happens to be unlucky enough to fall within my line of sight at that point gets the short end of the stick. Today, several people had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Kenji steps over one of them without breaking stride. He looks down at what’s left, then at the blood on my hands, and sighs. “You made a mess.”

I wipe my hands off with a cloth and shrug. He’s in his late forties, but somehow still looks barely thirty, with black hair, brown eyes, a broad, imposing build, and the same perfectly tailored suit he seems to wear everywhere.

“Who upset you?”

I don’t answer immediately. I’m still turning the cloth over my knuckles, watching the red come off onto white.

Kenji and I have always had a complicated relationship. He isn’t a father to me. The methods he used, and still uses, to train me are ruthless enough to make a part of me hate him, but I respect him. Now that I’ve grown up, he treats me like an actual heir. He sees me as an equal rather than someone he needs to control. It doesn’t erase what he did to me, and what he is still doing, but I suppose that’s the closest thing we’ve ever had to understanding each other.

“I heard you’ve become acquainted with the Solovyovs lately,” he says. “Alya is her name? Is she the reason for this tantrum? There are very few things that make you lose control.”

He’s right. I rarely kill blindly or without a reason. Most of the time, I’m perfectly capable of keeping my temper in check. But there have been exceptions. The last time I completely lost control was when Rei got hurt. I don’t remember much of that night beyond the anger and the bodies left behind afterward. More than fifty people died before anyone managed to pull me back from it.

Right now, the reason is Ilya. My prince seems determined to make sure he stays away from me, and it’s getting beyond annoying.

I have an idea for how to fix it, too. I’m just not sure I’m willing to push that far yet. There’s a line between making him come closer and actually spooking him, but I’m losing my patience.

Not to mention, I still don’t know where those bruises are coming from. I only caught a glimpse of them, but considering how determined he is to keep himself covered in long sleeves, I’m starting to think there’s more underneath, not to mention that empty gaze I saw on him.

I don’t know who put their hands on him, and I don’t particularly care what their reason was. Hurting Ilya is a very good way to get yourself acquainted with death, and whoever is responsible is going to learn that eventually.

I also don’t believe those bruises came from a fight. I know Ilya is a mafia prince, and that comes with its share of dangers, but Dimitri and Alexei are his armor. It annoys me how often they’re around him, but I let it pass.

Whenever they’re out together, they’re always the first ones between Ilya and any threat, so I know he didn’t get those bruises from an attack while he was with them.

And if he were getting into random fights on his own, I’d know. I’ve already dealt with anyone he’s had serious disagreements with, just to make sure.

I don’t know how long he plans on hiding whatever happened to him, but it won’t work forever.

“Would an alliance with the Solovyovs bother you? If I were to pursue one.”

“Who you marry is irrelevant to me. Though I would prefer it not be someone of bad taste. We have a reputation to maintain.”

Right. That’s the truth of him. He doesn’t need alliances. He has enough. Whoever I end up with is a matter of my personal interest, not the family’s necessity, and he’s never once pretended otherwise.

“It’s not the daughter I want.” I click my tongue. “It’s the son.”

He watches me, but there’s barely any change in his expression. “A hole is a hole.”

It doesn’t exactly surprise me. Our world has never cared much about who you sleep with as long as the arrangement serves its purpose. Although some parts of the Bratva are still stuck in the past and frown upon same-sex relationships, our circles, and even the Italian mafia, tend to be far more practical about it.

If a marriage brings power, strengthens an alliance, or expands territory, no one gives a damn about what happens behind closed doors or who you’re fucking. Kenji least of all.

“Take him if you wish, but be careful. The Solovyovs can be very heartless.” There’s a knowing glint in his eyes when he says it, but it fades almost as quickly as it appears. For the first time since I’ve known him, I think I see pain pass across Kenji Kazuma’s face, and I don’t know where it came from or who put it there. He doesn’t give me time to ask, because the next moment Akira and Yuma appear in the doorway.

They have a talent for arriving at the exact wrong moment, like small animals who can sense that something interesting is happening three rooms away.

Yuma gets two steps in, looks at the floor, and stops dead.