Page 20

To my great satisfaction, one corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re trying to charm your way out of this.”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

“Tragic.”

He leans back in his chair and folds his hands. “Don’t repeat it.”

I hold his gaze for a second, then nod. “Fine.”

He waves one hand toward the door in dismissal. “Get out of my office before I change my mind.”

I rise smoothly. “Love you too.” I actually do. Stupidly enough. I’ve spent my entire life trying to earn five consecutive minutes of my father’s attention that weren’t about a lecture, an order, or a disappointment.

You’d think after years of being overlooked in favor of everyone else, and after countless forgotten birthdays, I’d have gotten the message. Apparently not. Some pathetic part of me still keeps showing up, hoping today’s the day he looks at me like I’m his son instead of the family disappointment. Embarrassing. Anyway, that’s enough self-pity for one lifetime.

I slip into the hallway. It’s lined with framed portraits of dead relatives who all look like they’d disapprove of me. Which is fair. I’d probably dislike them too.

And standing right in front of me is my brother. Black hair. Green eyes. Barely taller than me, though you’d think he was ten feet above the rest of us with the way my father looks at him. Anton inherited something I never did. My father’s approval. Convenient thing to be born with.

He’s also older than me, which, under different circumstances, would probably make him the obvious heir. Except my father decided to be a whore before I was born and ended up having him with a woman who had no business anywhere near this family.

His mother was a prostitute.

Mine was a mafia princess.

So when it came time to decide who got the crown, there was never really a choice.

My father can fuck whoever he wants, apparently. But when it comes to inheritance, blood suddenly matters very much.

“Eavesdropping?”

He doesn’t bother denying it. He just exhales and says, “You make it impossible not to.”

“How sweet. You care.”

“Stop getting into trouble, Ilya.”

“Yeah. Pinky promise.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose like I’ve physically aged him. “You know what happens tomorrow, right?”

I don’t answer. I lift a hand in lazy farewell and keep walking.

When I finally get into bed, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.

At first I try not to think about anything, and it lasts maybe ten seconds.

Then, like always, I see his eyes.

Black.

They haunt me even when they’re gone, like something burned into the backs of my eyelids. I close my eyes and I still see them. Open them and I still feel them. That endless, terrible color looking at me.

And then, because apparently I haven’t suffered enough for one night, another thought slips in.

I wonder if he’s drawing her.