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Still, that ragey little Irishwoman will never rest easy until the person responsible for her death, and the death of our child, has paid dearly for his crime. The bloodier and more protracted his suffering, the happier Roxy would be.
Clare pulls on the jeans, socks, T-shirt, and sneakers that Yury so helpfully provided. I can’t help smiling at the sight of her—Yury’s sister is only fifteen years old, and the T-shirt is emblazoned with a bright pink K-Pop album cover.
“Are you serious?” Clare says.
“It’s that or you can come along naked,” I say. “I’m sure you can guess which one I’d prefer.”
Flushing, Clare stuffs her feet into the sneakers and follows after me.
Honestly, she looks pretty cute in the T-shirt, and those jeans are clinging to her ass in a way they never could on some teenage girl. I have no interest in adolescents—I like a woman with shape. Clare’s got more curves than a motor speedway. I’d like to drive my tongue down every inch of them.
No time for that right now, however.
I take her to my father’s ornate, rococo-style house on the edge of Blackwood Park.
This neighborhood of stately mansions is less than a seven-minute drive from the Warren, yet I might as well have crossed into another country. In Desolation, wealth and power reside only a few streets over from abject poverty. My father straddles the borderline; invading the galas of the elite when it suits his purposes, but more comfortable amongst the desperate and depraved—the people who would cut your throat for fifty dollars in a dark alleyway.
My father is the definition of ruthless acquisitiveness. There is nothing he won’t do to get what he wants.
He used to be able to accomplish his goals with his fists. He was just as massive and brutal a man as me, a ferocious fighter known as the Dentist for the amount of teeth he’d knocked out of people’s mouths. I learned from the best. I could have the same nickname now, for slightly different reasons…
His men feared and adored him. Sometimes when they were all rip-roaring drunk, he’d box with them for fun. It was an effective way to remind even the boldest up-and-comers why he was at the top of the heap.
Until he was shot in a drive-by by a pack of Armenians back in Moscow. He took eight bullets, including the one that lodged at the base of his spine.
The other seven shots hardly inconvenienced him any longer than it took the doctor to dig the metal out of his body.
But that last bullet severed his spinal cord. There was no recovering from that.
He’s been in a wheelchair ever since, unable to stand, walk, or even fuck.
As you can imagine, it hasn’t improved his temperament.
I’m the heir to his empire, second-in-command, and whoever put me behind bars likely fucking knows it.
Whoever masterminded the frame-up job might just as well have been an enemy of my father. They know I’m his muscle as well as his successor. Hell, they might even have known about Roxy’s pregnancy. We had only told our inner circle, but no ship is safe from leaks. If they wanted to end the Rogov line, they got damn close to accomplishing their goal.
My father knew about the baby. He hasn’t offered me one word of consolation. It isn’t his way—I’ve never heard endearments from him, or even compliments. Still, the loss of his grandson should have been marked in some way.
My resentment at that omission, even after all these months, surprises me.
I’m not glad to be back at this house. In fact, I despise it.
The only thing I don’t hate at this moment is the woman climbing out of the car behind me.
Clare looks with awe at the sprawling facade of the house, though she must be used to mansions grander than this. She’s probably wondering how the inside of a gangster’s house differs from what she’s seen before.
She follows me inside, staying extremely close and slightly behind my right arm like an off-set shadow.
I like how she clings to me.
Testing her, I pause for a moment in the entryway. Sure enough, she stops too, like a well-trained dog brought to heel.
My cock stiffens in my pants.
I’d like to train her to do so many things…
But for now, a less-pleasant encounter looms.
I take her directly to my father’s study.
Since I was locked up for the better part of six months, you’d think my father might show a little excitement at my return. Instead, he hardly looks up from the open ledger on his desk, only giving me a passing glance and Clare a hard, dark stare, before he writes a few more lines and then lays down his pen.
He says, “This is Valencia’s daughter?”
“That’s right.”
“What do you plan to do with her?”
“Use her as leverage,” I reply.
