“Good.” I keep my answer simple, wary of the blonde.
The women who flatter my father are ambitious. The smartest ones indulge him long enough for their association to become common knowledge, then break it off before he grows bored. They use his name to produce a new protector or to leverage an elevated career.
Bodies can be bought; loyalty can’t be.
Igor knows so. He taught me that lesson. He’s reckless, not careless. If I say something the blonde wasn’t meant to hear, she’ll never leave this room.
“Where’s Maksim?” I ask.
His favorite car was missing when I parked in the garage.
“Out,” is the only explanation of my younger brother’s absence.
“Elena?”
Igor scowls. “Whoring around, most likely.”
Few things foul my father’s mood faster than the mention of the woman who delivered him three sons in quick succession, then devoted the rest of her life to pretending he doesn’t exist. If he were only my father, not alsopakhan, I would point out his hypocrisy about her lack of respect for their marriage. I’mtempted to say it anyway. But the blonde would suffer for those remarks, not me.
She might suffer anyway. Her eyes haven’t left me since I entered the room.
Igor abruptly says, “Leave. Shut the door,” and I know he’s noticed.
I do as I was told, releasing a long exhale as soon as I hear the latch click behind me. Some dread lingers, following me up the main stairs and into the right side of the house.
Since Aleksandr, my older brother, moved out, the remaining Sokolovs—my parents, Maksim, and me—each have our own wing, easily accommodated by the size of Serebryanovo. Necessary since the manor is surrounded by more security than most prisons. It’s one of the few places—maybe the only place—where it’s safe to lower my guard. None of our enemies have ever managed to breach the perimeter—and not for lack of trying.
The men I pass nod in respect, a few flashing faint grins of greeting.
Maids scurry out of the way as I stride toward the hallway that leads to my wing. All except one. I shake my head at Anna as I pass her. She pouts in disappointment, but doesn’t appear surprised.
It always takes me a few days to resume a normal schedule after a trip to the States. Everyone assumes that’s due to the time change or the long flight. They can believe whatever they’d like, as long as it’s not the truth.
Finally, I’m alone. I shut and lock the door behind me.
Igor’s women like to wander. Their interest in fucking me for no favors has never overridden my disgust at why they’re here to begin with, yet I suspect Maksim has a more favorable opinion. Same with Aleksandr, although he hasn’t spent a night here since his marriage to Victoria to take advantage of any opportunities. He finds mistresses elsewhere anyway.
I flip on more lights, illuminating the large space. A partial wall blocks a clear view of the bedroom and bathroom; what used to be a playroom when I was a child, then training space when I was a teenager, has been converted into extra living space. There’s a couch and a bookcase, plus a kitchenette that mostly serves as a bar.
I set my gun on the counter, then empty my pockets. I still as black lace rasps my palm.
Stupid.
It was incredibly idiotic to take something of hers. I don’t need—and shouldn’t want—any physical reminder of Carina.
I leave the thong in my pocket, like that’ll allow me to forget its existence, and grab a bottle of vodka from the freezer before pouring a generous amount into a glass. I want a cigarette, too, but I can’t smoke in the shower.
I strip out of my suit, then head into the bathroom.
I had it remodeled about a decade ago, when the training room was replaced, and I’m still happy with the results. I told the designer I wanted everything dark, and she delivered. Black tile and black stone cover the floors and walls. The toilet is hidden behind a divider past the sink, and the entire other wall is an enclosed glass shower. The lack of brightness is calming, and I don’t have to watch blood circle the shower drain or sink.
I turn the brass-covered lights to their lowest setting, the soft glow similar to firelight, then crank the shower to its hottest setting. Swallow a long, fortifying sip of chilled liquor as steam starts to swirl in the air. More dread ebbs away.
I step under the spray, watching my skin redden as it’s pummeled by streams of hot water. Close my eyes, tilt my head back, and empty most of the glass I’m holding.
How fucking sad that this is the only part of returning home I look forward to.
FIRST TIMES
