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Mia Patel, a veteran news anchor for the BBC, was perched on the edge of her seat across from me in a staged corner of the Kremlin’s executive office. I fucking hated being on TV, not because I was afraid of public speaking—after spending five years of my life in a near-constant state of fear, being interviewed didn’t exactly scare me—but because of how little I knew about politics. I’d been kidnapped at the age of fifteen and had no education beyond that other than how to speak Russian and kill anything that walked. It really should have been Clover in that seat.
“President Abramov,” Mia continued, “you have dual citizenship with Russia and Ireland and are considered to be personally responsible for spearheading Ireland’s application to join NATO. Many didn’t think it would be possible due to initial opposition from the UK. How did you help broker that deal?”
I glanced across the room at Clover, who was standing out of the way of the TV crew with a proud little smile on her perfect fucking face.
“I can’t take credit for the NATO bid,” I said without taking my eyes off of Clo. “That was my brilliant wife, Clover’s, idea. Clo, say hi.”
A camera panned over to her, and I tried not to laugh. I loved making that woman blush. Her freckled cheeks flushed pink as she waved and shot me a murderous glare.
Clover and I weren’t technically married—at least not in this lifetime—but she was still my wife. She would always be my wife, and calling her anything other than that felt like a fucking lie.
“After pulling out of Ireland, our goal was to help ensure that they never had to fear another foreign invasion, and joining NATO would give them that protection. Because their acceptance had to be unanimous, convincing the UK to allow them in was crucial, but after speaking with the prime minister, it became clear that UK’s issue wasn’t with Ireland, nor was Russia’s under the rule of my father. It was with their ruling party, the United Irish Brotherhood.”
Mia steepled her fingers under her chin. “Yes. Séamus Rooney, the head of the UIB and former taoiseach of Ireland, fled during the invasion and is rumored to be avoiding extradition in Venezuela.”
“That’s correct. And with him gone, Irish government officials had a much easier time removing the remaining UIB party members and securing their NATO membership.”
“Well, congratulations to you—and to your wife—on the role you played in this historic event.”
I tried not to laugh as Clover froze in terror, anticipating another on-screen moment, but Mia spared her and kept the questions rolling.
“And what does this decision mean for you personally?”
This was the moment she’d been waiting for. Mia’s stoic face perked up as she reveled in the exclusive scoop I was about to give her and the BBC.
Turning to face the camera, I caught myself watching Clover out of the corner of my eye. Nothing had my full attention anymore—not even a worldwide prime-time interview—and it hadn’t since the moment I’d first laid eyes on her, across the Irish Sea. Even when she wasn’t in the room, part of my mind was never not thinking about her. She was the sun that the rest of my life revolved around.
And soon, the rest of my life would require a lot less of my attention.
“It means that I can step down as the president of the Russian Federation.”
Clover beamed, and it took all the professionalism I pretended to have not to stare at her gorgeous, happy face instead of the camera.
“I have been holding this position to protect Ireland from being attacked again by my potential successor, but now that the UIB has been removed from office and Ireland has the means to protect itself against future invasions, I can rest assured that they will never be defenseless, or have a reason to be attacked, again. Therefore, the time has come for me to submit my resignation and allow the Russian people to do what they haven’t been allowed to do in over a decade—elect a president of their choosing.”
As soon as they turned off the cameras and unclipped my mic, I bolted across the room and picked Clover up off her feet. Her auburn hair formed a curtain around our faces, and for a moment, it was just the two of us again.
“We’re goin’ home, angel.” I grinned, tilting my head back so that she could claim the kiss that had been waiting for her since that goddamn interview had begun.
I couldn’t have done any of it without her. Clover was more the president of Russia than I was. She was brilliant, organized, eager to learn, and a natural problem-solver. But she didn’t want the job any more than I did, so the news that we could finally go home was an absolute dream come true.
The moment I set my girl back down, Mia was there, waiting patiently with a phone in her hand. “Mr. President. Excuse my interruption, but you’re gonna want to see this.”
Mia tapped the screen and swiped through video after video of people cheering and crying and banging spoons on metal pots throughout the city.
“Our exterior film crew has been sending me footage of the scene in Moscow right now. It would seem that your citizens are very excited about the chance to elect their own president.”
Clover and I stared at the footage in awe. When I had become president, we had been terrified that I’d be assassinated, either by the Bratva for my role in rebuilding Ireland, by a challenger who considered me weaker than my father, or by a random disgruntled citizen. It never occurred to us that our ideas would actually be embraced by a country I’d considered to be the enemy for so long.
The Bratva was the hardest to win over. They’d accepted me because they had to—I was Alexi’s only male heir, and the Russian Mafia was nothing if not a monarchy—but earning their trust had taken a little more work.
“Mr. President,” one of my security guards said in Russian, appearing at my side like a shadow. “The, uh, package you ordered has arrived, sir.”
Thanking Mia and kissing Clover one more time, I excused myself and followed Igor down to the basement and through an underground tunnel to the Ivan the Great Bell Tower. During Ivan the Terrible’s reign, the basement had been converted into a secret prison and torture chamber, which I’d had the pleasure of not needing … until now.
The tunnel and prison were as dark and damp and cold and barren as the rest of the palace was opulent and bright. But they weren’t quiet. Not anymore. Deep Russian voices and booming laughter echoed off the stone walls as I exited the tunnel and emerged into the tower’s basement. Cells with metal doors lined the perimeter of the space, and ancient medieval torture devices were gathered in the center, collecting dust like some kind of morbid, forgotten museum exhibit.
But it wasn’t forgotten anymore.
