Sorry is another word people use without significance. They rarely mean it, and it’s only expressed once it’s too late. The damage has already been done.
Justine’s apology didn’t sound worthless. It was the most genuine I’ve heard. There was no malice in her tone when she spoke, and her eyes aren’t just full to the brim with moisture, they’re also crammed with remorse.
She’s as sorry she slapped me as I am about hurting her. I shouldn’t have used her scars to free her from Vladimir’s madness. I should have shielded her from him as I plan to from here on out.
Roman peers up from his shoes when I ask him to leave. As he takes a step toward me, the worry on his face becomes unmissable. “Your father, Nikolai. You know what he is like after Rico. Disobeying his direct order could result in—”
“I’ll deal with him,” I interrupt, my hostile voice warning him my mood is already on edge, so he’d do best not to test me. I’ve never struggled with my emotions as I am now. Usually, I give a demand, and you either follow it or die. Today, the only thing I want to kill is the pain in Justine’s eyes.
After a stretch of intense silence, Roman asks, “Will the benefit outweigh the penance?”
He has asked that question many times the past decade. Not once have I been able to answer yes. This time is different. Justine is unlike any woman I’ve ever met. She’s smart, beautiful, and when her eyes aren’t filled with pain, she sees the real me, the man I hide from others.
Although hurt continues reflecting from Justine’s eyes, its rate slows when I drag my thumbs across her cheeks to clear her tears. I don’t know if my touch is responsible for the flare of hope drying the wetness in her eyes, or what I say while touching her. “Yes. Do I not deserve a night of pardon after all the years I’ve served?”
I killed for Vladimir; I forgot who I was for him, so I deserve more than one lousy night, but if that’s all I can get, I’ll take it. A lifetime of apologies won’t fix the mistakes I’ve made, but one night of showing Justine who I really am is a great start.
Roman’s eyes hold the sentiment they did when my shattered ankle was set without anesthetics when he mutters, “You deserve that, and so much more.”
After dipping his chin, wishing me luck, he exits Justine’s apartment without so much as a backward glance. Strangers would believe he’s leaving me high and dry. I trust that he’d never do that. He will put measures in place to ensure my one day off isn’t interrupted because he knows I’ll come out the other end more powerful than I’ve ever been.
A grin tugs at my lips when Roman’s deep timbre booms through Justine’s rapidly closing door. “You know how to reach me. Contact me when you’re ready.”
When the latch on the front door clicks into place, announcing we're alone, I commence rebuilding my empire by removing the tears slipping down Justine’s face. Even a devil needs a queen at his side when he takes his throne, and bratva queens don’t cry when they’re hurt by their enemies. They annihilate them.
Once Justine’s face is free of moisture, I plop her backside on the couch so she’s out of the way while I remove the one object I know will foil my attempt to make things right. The surveillance equipment monitoring every inch of her apartment.
“Wait here.”
Although confused by my quick change in demeanor, Justine nods, agreeing with my request. Her chin has barely lowered an inch when I drag the armchair I sat on last night while watching Justine dance up a storm to the far corner of the living room.
An idea of the madness I want Justine to be a part of is showcased in an unfavorable light when the electrical cord maintaining the live feed breaks through the crown molding in the living room.
“They were hardwired?” Justine mumbles, shocked.
Nodding, I cut through the wire with my knife before moving for the camera in Justine’s room. It’s still covered by her yoga pants, but that won’t stop its microphone from being activated.
While removing the blinking red contraptions from Justine’s dead silent apartment, I feed off the torment slicking my skin with sweat. Before ending the live feed with my knife as I plan to do to Vladimir’s life, I smile down the lens. Each condescending smirk should add another nail to my coffin, but I was raised by a master manipulator, so I know all his tricks.
I have something Vladimir needs. I’m his golden ticket to a power he’s been striving for his entire life. Without me, his greatest wish will never come true. Not only does that knowledge free me from the fear of prosecution, it also changes my game plan in an instant. Vladimir will still class what I’m doing as disobedient, but he will also respect it, because as far as he is concerned, I’m being the man he raised me to be.
With my veins as icy as my blue eyes, I stare down the lens of the camera in Justine’s kitchen before singing a nursery rhyme no one but Vladimir will understand. “Send the angel to the devil’s bed, hold her, cherish her, then cut off her head. She danced with Satan and now she is dead, all for lying in the devil’s bed.”
Everyone of Vladimir’s men understand Russian. They just have no clue what his rhyme means. It isn’t about good or evil, or coercing an angel to dance with death. It’s a warning to Vladimir’s sons on what will happen if they let a woman fracture the rightful order. They can be bedded by the devil, and cherished by him, but the instant they dance with Satan by placing themselves between him and the spawn born solely to protect him, they’ll lose their lives by the devil they’ve fallen in love… or die alongside him.
I’ll never let anyone hurt Justine. I will protect her how Dimitri failed to do years ago, but I can only do that by convincing Vladimir she means nothing to me. Reciting Vladimir’s rhyme adds to the ruse Roman and I pulled on him earlier. When he hears it, he will believe Justine is nothing more than a night or two of entertainment, and that the words I spoke moments ago were said to trick her into my bed.
I meant every word I spoke, but I’m happy for Vladimir to think otherwise. Then, once Justine is off his radar, I’ll play the game with the ruthlessness it deserves, and I will win.
The crown.
The throne.
The queen.
They will all be mine.
As will Vladimir’s life.
