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“Oh?”
“I just received word your father is dead.”
It takes a moment not only for the words to sink in but the ramifications of it. A presidential assassination will throw the nation into upheaval, and Andarusia is already in a fragile state.
But the one barrier standing between me and Willow is obliterated.
I take a pull from my cigarette, then exhale. “Good. You saved me the trouble of killing him myself.”
Hans quirks his brow at me. “Grigor Kurochkin’s death will benefit Andarusia, but the man was your father. Do you feel nothing?”
My bare arm is covered in blood, so I hold the cigarette between my teeth while rolling up my sleeve. Turning my forearm to the ceiling, I lay it on the table. Hans’ eyes widen at the dozens of scars.
“Trust me,” I say, “I won’t be mourning his death.”
Hans leans back in his seat. “You were supposed to die as well.”
The first shot in the auditorium hit Johanna, a bullet intended for me. And the one that grazed Willow’s ear… was it aimed at me or my father?
“Your soldiers can’t aim.”
A smile crosses his face, which looks out of place on his hardened countenance. “I’ll admit we’re a ragtag militia. But we are mighty in our numbers.”
“I assume you intended to kill the dozens of others who perished today?” I ask. “After all, your moles in the President’s Guard had plenty of opportunities to take out my father and me. Did you intend to kill the students as well?”
His smile fades, and he takes a drag of his cigarette, mulling over my question. “Other high-ranking officials and powerful businessmen were in that auditorium today. They were targets. Their children were not.”
I nod, my suspicions confirmed. It was an ambush planned in advance with a sloppy execution. “Are you going to kill me now? Finish the job your men can’t?”
Hans tilts his head, calculating. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Is it because of my charming wit?”
“No.” He doesn’t laugh. “When you turned yourself over to us, you asked for a ceasefire. I respect your sacrifice, and that’s the only reason you’re still breathing. But I may change my mind.”
I give him a slow nod. “I’m not afraid of dying. And I’m not afraid of you.”
Hans leans forward and extinguishes his cigarette in the ashtray on the table. It marks the midpoint between us. A neutral zone.
He folds his hands in front of him. “What are you afraid of, Aleksandr Kurochkin?”
I’m afraid of losing Willow. But also…
“I’m afraid of following the wrong path. A path my father laid out for me before I was even born.”
He tilts his head. “You don’t want the presidency?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I want someone capable to succeed my father, and I’m smart enough to know I’m not the right fit for the job.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow at me. “Most men crave power.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “I crave power, but the president of Andarusia isn’t powerful. He’s a Russian puppet.”
Hans leans back in his chair, and it creaks beneath his weight. “You aren’t what I expected, Aleksandr.”
“What did you expect? A privileged fuckboy drunk on power and wealth?”
At last, he chuckles. It’s a low, gravelly sound, like he isn’t accustomed to laughing. “Something like that.”
