Page 25 of The Brat: Prequel

“Because it’s a simple peck on the cheek.”

“Pecks lead to more.” I glower at him when he snickers. “What’s so funny?”

“You. You’re hilarious,” he deadpans. “You can’t stop her from living her life.”

“The whole point of this exercise was to make sure she had one!”

“Precisely. So back the fuck off.”

“Why are you showing me the damn pictures then?”

“Because you needed to see them and you needed to get control of yourself.”

My jaw works as I immediately disregard his counsel. “Arrange a car crash.”

“A car crash?” he sputters.

“Da. Break his legs or something. I’ll visit him in the hospital. Warn him off. His uncle will never know.”

“This is you getting control of yourself?”

“I’m not castrating him, am I? We both know how that dance will have ended.”

“I doubt it. She flits around the boys. Doesn’t settle with any for long.”

“That’s because she has taste. These weedy American teenagers... what’s to like about them?”

“She’s also a weedy American teenager.”

I retract my knife, shove the point into the desk, and spin it. “You were saying?”

“You’ll wreck the tip doing that.”

“I can wreck it when I stab you in the thigh. The femur is a big bone with a juicy artery running alongside it.”

“When you start doling out death threats because of her, I know to back the fuck off.” He waggles the pictures. “Want me to destroy these?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Do you seriously want me to arrange the car crash?”

“Do you think I like wasting oxygen?”

He grouses something under his breath but stomps off to do my bidding.

I study her face, unsurprised that she’s growing into a beauty—her mother was gorgeous. Her father more of a troll. But thankfully, his genes didn’t stick around for long.

A rumor used to run around the ranks that Vasov’s kids weren’t his. That his wife had lots of affairs. I knew about one, heard about another, but from what I figured out of her rumored exes, the dates never coincided with the three daughters she eventually bore.

Objectively, I can see Victoria’s pretty. Subjectively, I fear what those dipshit American teenagers will do as they covet that prettiness.

Victoria is no matryoshka doll. Sitting on a shelf, staring out at the world, frozen in space and time as men manage her life. I’ll kill to keep her from being typecast as a daughter of the Bratva.

She’s special.

I’ve always known that.

Misha’s head pops around the door again. “Mariska’s here.”