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Her eyes lit up. “Of course! You’re telling me I should make that mongrel fall in love with me.”
I was telling her I knew she wasn’t the kind of woman to go crazy over a man, let alone over me. She’d never lower herself to marry a whore’s son. Yet I said, “Isn’t it obvious?”
She climbed on top of me and started kissing me. Right as her hand went to my crotch, I grabbed her wrist. Gently, I pulled her off the couch and pushed her out of the door. I didn’t envy Mikhail. The poor bastard was in way over his head.
My eyes went to my desk. “You can come out now.” There was no movement from my little spy. I sighed. “Don’t make me come and drag you out of there.”
Finally, huffing and puffing, Katya’s head popped up from behind the desk. She smoothed her hair and straightened her clothes.
Her mouth opened, then closed. I would wait until she came with an explanation.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, “You know she wanted you to fight for her, right?”
“Really? That’s what you have to say for yourself?”
Her cheeks flamed, but she held her ground. “The woman practically begged you for it.”
The girl was bold. I admired that so I decided to let the issue of her hiding underneath my desk go. For now.
“You are mistaken. Svetlana doesn’t beg. She also doesn’t love.”
Disbelief washed over her face. “But she said that you could maybe…if you’d be a bit more. And um, your past wouldn’t matter.” She cleared her throat. “I suppose by ‘past’ she meant your day job.”
“I’m Bratva,” I provided for her, so there would be no misunderstanding about it.
“I kind of figured, but was trying to be subtle.”
“I don’t do subtle.”
“I’m starting to get that,” she grumbled.
I walked over to my desk, noticed one of my books was open, and flipped it closed. The girl was nowhere near ready to begin reading Machiavelli.
“Either way, you’re wrong. Svetlana doesn’t care about my job, subtle or not. It’s my rank she has problems with.”
Her frown deepened. “Rank, as in like a soldier or a lieutenant?”
“No, as in brigadier, prince, or king.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, Svetlana was a duchess until her father got promoted to king. Now she believes herself to be a princess, and wants to land a king.”
A sparkle entered her eyes. “I’m guessing you’re not wearing a crown yet. So, what are you?”
I figured she’d understand. “I’m what some people would consider a prince.”
“Well...that means you’re bound to become a king, right? Or at least, you might one day?”
“I would never become such a mundane thing as a king. I’m going to become the emperor.” That’s what it would take to tear down the puppet master. I was going to destroy his life just as he’d destroyed mine.
She shook her head, clearly no longer interested in Bratva politics. “But what about love? Don’t you love her?”
Love had nothing to do with it. Despite her ageless eyes, I was reminded that Katya was only seventeen. A very grown-up teen, but still a teenager. How to make this clear to her? Perhaps my mother had once explained it best.
“Some men carry a grenade underneath the left side of their chest. When a woman steps on it, the grenade explodes. The man shatters. It doesn’t matter who visits that side of his chest ever again. No other will have the same effect. A grenade only blows up once. A man only loves once.”
She frowned. “You have already loved once?”
