Sasha's face turned ugly instantly. He cracked his own window slightly, his voice like an ice-dipped blade. "Pakhan has his own schedule. If you don't know how to make an appointment in advance, I don't mind teaching you some manners right now, Yuri."
"I'm just following orders, Sasha." Yuri lifted his chin provocatively, hand on his waist holster. "Mr. Volkov's orders—in this family, does anyone dare disobey?"
Fucking bastard.
Rage surged through me. But now wasn't the time for a showdown.
That didn't mean I'd swallow this asshole's provocation.
I looked at Yuri's smug face and curved my lips.
"My father wants to see me. As his son, I suppose I owe him that much." I pushed open the door and stepped out, my long legs hitting the ground, towering over Yuri.
I was a full head taller. When the terrifying pressure of the Pakhan unleashed without restraint, Yuri's fake smile froze instantly. He instinctively took half a step back.
I didn't even look at him, didn't acknowledge the Lincoln door he'd pulled open. Instead, I walked straight past him and yanked open the back door of my own Escalade again.
"But I'm particular about cleanliness, Yuri. I don't sit in leather seats that smell like dog." I settled into the car and deliveredmy final words to Yuri's livid face. "Lead the way. If you drive too slow, I don't mind having Sasha roll right over your roof."
The window rose slowly, sealing off the outside world completely.
"Find out." I leaned back against the seat, eyes closed, my voice carrying bone-chilling murder. "Only a few people in the inner circle knew my exact flight details from Vegas. For Yuri to intercept me precisely at the highway exit means we've got one of the old man's eyes inside. Dig out that mole. Bring him to the basement alive."
"Understood." Sasha gripped the steering wheel and asked in a low voice, "But Mr. Volkov went too far this time. Even though he nominally handed over power, this kind of test..."
"He wants me to know that even though I'm sitting in the Pakhan's seat, the family's foundation is still shaking. The remnants of his power haven't been completely dismantled." I opened my eyes, my gray pupils devoid of warmth. "He's forcing me to make a move. But the time isn't right."
I needed a legitimate reason and opportunity to strike.
Half an hour later, the car pulled into the massive, opulent yet blood-stinking Volkov estate in the Maryland suburbs.
Through corridors hung with classical oil paintings and heavy crystal chandeliers, I entered the dining room thick with cigar smoke and expensive cognac.
My father, Peter Volkov, sat at the far end of that redwood table that could seat twenty. His graying hair was combed to perfection. Though time had carved deep ravines into his face, his hawk-like eyes still gleamed with cunning and ruthlessness.
"Nikolai, my son." The old man set down his wine glass, revealing an extremely phony paternal smile. "Is the Las Vegas air fresher than Washington's?"
"The entertainment there is certainly excellent, Father." I took a seat at the opposite end, as far from him as possible. A servant immediately poured me a third of a glass of Bordeaux. "But if I hadn't come back, I wouldn't have known you've started tracking airline flight schedules so closely. Your intelligence network is even more efficient than mine, the Pakhan's."
I smiled, but the undercurrent in the air could shred any ordinary person.
The old man cut a piece of bloody steak and put it in his mouth, chewed twice, and laughed dismissively. "As a retired old man, is it wrong to care about my son's safety? Besides, your foundation isn't as solid as you think, Nikolai."
"Whether my foundation is solid doesn't need to be tested by having a pack of ill-mannered dogs intercept me on the highway." I swirled my wine glass, ruthlessly piercing his pretense. "If you're bored, you could go play golf in Florida instead of overreaching."
Peter's face darkened instantly. He slammed down his knife and fork—porcelain clinking sharply—but he had to maintain surface peace.
"You're still so aggressive." He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth, forcing a crude topic change. "Let's talk about more important matters. Nikolai, you've been in this position for a while now. The old guard is starting to grumble. 'A Pakhan without a wife shows weakness'—you haven't forgotten that old saying."
My hand holding the wine glass paused slightly, a familiar wave of nausea rising in my gut.
Here we go again.
The disgust deep inside me spread like vines. In this cold-blooded man's world, anything could be weighed on a scale—including marriage, including flesh and blood.
Years ago, he'd used this same sanctimonious profit logic to lure my mother—who should have had a brilliant life—into this grim manor. He'd treated her like a trophy to decorate the facade, a tool to produce heirs. After draining every ounce of her usefulness, he'd used endless cold violence, betrayal, and brutal mob warfare to suck her soul dry bit by bit.
"So you staged this whole production today to shove a puppet wife down my throat who serves your interests?" I laughed coldly.
