"I think we have mutual interests."
"My only interest is keeping my wife from realizing she has a piece of shit for a father," I growl. I lean in, my shadows stretching across the table until they touch his hands. "Artyom said no. That means the answer is no. If I find one of your 'soft' shipments moving through a Morozov port, I won't call a meeting. I’ll burn the trucks, I’ll kill the drivers, and then I’ll come for the man who signed the order. Do you understand me, Boris?"
Boris pales, his jaw tightening. He looks at Vladimir, but my father just stares at the map, his silence a heavy weight.
"You’re making a mistake," Boris hisses. "The Council won't be happy with this kind of 'morality' in a business like ours."
"The Council follows the Pakhan," Artyom says, standing up. "And the Pakhan is done with this meeting."
Artyom walks out without another word. I stand up slowly, feeling the itch in my knuckles. I want to hit something. I use my new wife as a distraction instead.
She’s probably awake by now. Sitting in that silk robe, looking out the window at a city she hates. Thinking about her fucking secrets.
"Mikhail," Vladimir calls out as I reach the door. I stop, but I don't turn around. "You’re becoming soft, like your brother. It’s the woman. She’s a distraction."
"She’s not a distraction, Vladimir," I say, my voice a promise of violence. "She’s the reason I’m still at this table instead of taking Queens from Boris by force. Be grateful for her."
I walk out into the hallway, the heavy doors thudding shut behind me. Artyom is waiting by the grand staircase, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looks tired. The weight of the crown is a visible thing on his shoulders today.
"He won't stop," Artyom says as I approach.
"I know," I say. "Boris is a cockroach. He’ll find another way. He thinks the marriage makes him untouchable."
"And his daughter? Is she a problem, brother?" Artyom asks, leaning back against the desk. He’s watching me too closely.
I narrow my eyes and fold my arms across my chest. “She’s a frail female, she can’t be a problem to me.”
Artyom scoffs. "Right. I saw you at the wedding reception, brother. You didn't look like you were dealing with a “frail female”, you literally went mad for a full 30 minutes there. You were losing your head. Thisfemaleis going to be too much for you to handle."
I glower. Losing my head? I don't fucking think so.
"She’s a Petrov," I say, keeping my voice level. "She lies when she breathes and she’s stubborn as hell. But I have it under control."
"Kira is worried about her," Artyom says, his voice softening at the mention of his wife. "She thinks Irina is hiding something. Something bigger than just running away."
"She is," I say, my fingers curling into a fist at my side. "And I’m going to find out what it is before the week is over."
"Don't break her, Mikhail. We need the alliance stable."
"I won't," I murmur, already moving past him toward the stairs.
I’ll just make her mine. Piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left of her.
I head up the stairs, my pulse quickening with every step. The meeting was a waste of time, a reminder of the filth I’m expected to build my life on. But the thought of Irina—of the way her eyes flare when she’s angry, of the way her skin felt against mine in the dark—is a siren call I can't ignore.
I don't like her. I don't trust her. But God help me, I can't stay away from her.
CHAPTER NINE
IRINA
The morning room of the Morozov estate is a masterpiece of gilded architecture. Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but it doesn't offer any warmth; it only illuminates the dust motes dancing over three women who look like they’re deciding whether to ignore me or say something to me.
I stand in the doorway, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of a borrowed silk robe that feels like a costume. My own clothes were left in Mexico.
I feel like a stray cat that’s been dragged into a palace.
Kira is the first one I notice. She’s sitting by the window, a cup of tea in her hand, looking out at the grounds with a focused intensity. She doesn't turn when I enter. She doesn't have to. Theair in the room shifts the second I cross the threshold, turning brittle.
