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Ever since she was little, she was taught this would happen.

Families like ours take a little girl and teach her, piece by piece, that one day she will belong to a man chosen for her, and if he’s tolerable, then she should consider herself lucky.

So yes, her expectations are low.

They train them low.

On purpose.

And every time I realize how deeply that’s been carved into her, I want to drag this entire bloodline into the ocean and let them drown.

“Be careful. And if he pulls anything funny, call me and I’ll introduce his skeleton to the outside world.”

She laughs. Then she steps closer and kisses my cheek like she used to when we were younger. “I know.”

I watch her leave and let the front door shut behind her. Then I close my eyes and press my tongue against the inside of my cheek, because if I let myself think too hard about Alya going to dinner with Kento, someone’s family tree is about to lose a few branches.

I turn and head for my father’s office. He called me this morning and said I should go there, which in our family is never a suggestion. So here I am.

His office is exactly what you’d expect from a man like him: dark wood, expensive leather, and shelves lined with books no one reads for pleasure. The air smells faintly of vodka. That’s his favorite drink. I hate it, despite being Russian. I’m pretty sure this makes me a disgrace to my bloodline, but I’ll survive.

My father sits behind his desk. He has the same eyes as me, or maybe I have the same eyes as him, but his are harsher. His black hair is neatly combed back, silver beginning to show at the temples, and the lines around his mouth have settled into the kind of permanent disapproval I’ve known my entire life.

I drop into the chair across from him and cross one ankle over my knee.

He studies me, then says, “You gave me a great deal of trouble again, Ilya.”

I tilt my head. “Aw. Was it memorable trouble at least?”

His stare flattens, which is good, because if I’m getting dragged into a lecture, I might as well be entertaining.

He’s mad because of the last meeting with the big syndicates.

Technically, I understand why.

Emotionally, I think everyone there can suck glass.

One dried-up old bastard with too much authority and not enough erectile function decided to run his mouth about Dimitri and say he wasn’t fit to be heir. As if that decrepit fuck had the right to judge him. Only I’m allowed to insult Dimitri.

So naturally, when the old fuck started talking, I informed the room that his dick was wrinkly and he had probably lost the ability to fuck years ago, which explained why he was so obsessed with younger men proving themselves.

Apparently that was “inappropriate,” “disrespectful to a senior figure,” and “reflected poorly on my father.”

People are so sensitive these days.

My father rubs a hand slowly over his mouth, then his temple. “Do you understand the position you put me in?”

He exhales through his nose. “You’re the heir to this family.”

“I noticed.”

“Then start acting like it.”

I lean back in the chair. I know I shouldn’t have done that, but I hate when outsiders pick at what’s mine to pick at. Dimitri can be egotistical, violent, and insufferable, but he’s ours. Mine and Alexei’s.

My father sees the silence and pounces on it with his eyes. “That temper will ruin you if you don’t learn where to point it.”

I lift a brow. “I think it’s hereditary.”