Artyom’s jaw tightens, but it’s my father who speaks next.
"I want to speak with my daughter," Boris says, his eyes fixed on me. "Alone. Now."
Mikhail hesitates. I can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body reacts to the command. For a second, I think he might say no. I almost want him to say no. The thought of being alone with my father is a cold weight in my chest.
But this is the Bratva. This is the old world. A father has rights.
"Ten minutes," Mikhail says, his voice like gravel. He looks down at me, his gaze lingering on my mouth for a second too long. "Upstairs. My room."
He lets go of me, and the sudden loss of his heat makes the room feel ten degrees colder. I feel exposed, a rabbit in a room full of wolves.
"Come," Boris says, turning and walking toward the stairs.
I follow him, my heart hammering against my ribs. We walk up the grand staircase in silence. The Morozov estate is full of shadows, portraits of dead men watching us with judgmental eyes. We reach the second floor and enter a large, mahogany-paneled room. Mikhail’s room.
It’s masculine, austere, and smells like him. I stand by the window, looking out at the gray New York sky, trying to find a shred of the "Elena" I left in Mexico.
The door thuds shut. The click of the lock is a gunshot in the quiet room.
I turn around. My father is standing there, the mask of the professional Pakhan gone, replaced by the raw, vicious fury of a man who has been disobeyed.
"You bitch!”
CHAPTER FOUR
IRINA
The wordbitchhangs in the air, vibrating with a venom that makes the mahogany walls of Mikhail’s bedroom feel like they’re closing in.
I don’t flinch. I spent twenty-five years learning how to turn my heart into a stone, and even if it’s currently hammering against my ribs like a frantic bird, I won’t let him see the cracks. I stand by the window, the gray New York sky reflecting in the glass, a stark contrast to the sun-drenched sanctuary I left behind.
He’s purple. Literally purple. I wonder if his blood pressure is high enough to finally do me a favor and end this.
"Is that the best you’ve got, Papa?" I ask, my voice surprisingly steady. I turn to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. The oversized wool coat Mikhail draped over me is still heavy on my shoulders, smelling of his dark, addictive scent. "You called methat when I was six and spilled juice on your rug. You called me that when I was sixteen and..."
"Don't you dare speak of that," Boris snarls, taking a step toward me. His presence is a physical weight, a suffocating blanket of old-world misogyny and raw power. "You have no idea the damage you’ve caused. Six months of back-pedaling. Six months of making excuses to the Council, telling them my daughter was 'fragile' and 'recovering' from an illness. You made me a liar, Irina. You made the Petrov name a fucking joke."
"I don’t care about the lifeyouchose for me," I say, my chin lifting.
"You should be on your knees!" he roars, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. "You should be grateful that Vladimir hasn't demanded your head on a platter for the insult you offered his son. You should be grateful I am even giving you another chance to repair this. To be useful."
Useful. Like a toaster. Or a high-yield savings account. That’s all I am to him.
"Useful to who? To you? To the Morozovs?" I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "I was useful in Cancun. I worked. I earned my own bread. I didn't have to look at your face every morning and wonder which piece of my soul you were going to sell next."
"Your 'running' was more than just a tantrum, you spoiled brat," Boris says, his voice dropping to a low, vicious hiss. He’s in my space now, his shadow swallowing me. "It was a strikeagainst family interests. We were on the verge of the Queens consolidation. The Morozovs were ready to sign over the docks. And then you vanished, and everything stalled. You cost me millions. You cost me territory. You cost me blood."
"I cost you a business deal," I whisper, my eyes stinging. "I didn't cost you a daughter, because you never had one. You had a pawn."
"And a pawn does what it’s told!"
His hand moves before I can even blink. It’s a fast, practiced blur—the same hand that has directed hits and signed death warrants. He raises it high, his face contorted with the need to break me, to finally put the "perfect doll" back in her place with a stinging reminder of who owns her.
I close my eyes, bracing for the impact. I wait for the sharp crack of skin on skin, the familiar humiliation of being silenced by force.
But the blow never comes.
Instead, there’s a sound of wood splintering as the door is kicked open. A heavy, authoritative thud.
