Page 12 of Prospect Year

You are reading on AllFreeNovel.com
Font Size:

Page 12 of Prospect Year

And Mikhail is the one who should die, not me.

An hour later, a dazzling white mansion catches my eye on the horizon. It gleams so brilliantly that I have to squint against its radiance.

This has to be it. Mikhail’s lair.

I bring the car to a stop in front of the imposing, iron-wrought gate. And immediately, one of the security men walks up to me, his gun pointed at the car, ready to shoot if I so much as twitch wrong.

My stomach knots with anxiety, yet I manage to stay composed. I’m not dying here today. I quickly raise my hands and call out from the car window. “I have a message for Mikhail Zirkhov.”

His eyes flicker between me and the envelope in my hand. Whether he believes me or not, his expression doesn’t show. “Who are you?”

“Alya Varkov.” My spine steels and there’s a flame of rage burning in my chest as I add, “Tell him it’s the daughter of Vladimir Varkov, the man he killed.”

The guard pulls out his phone and makes a call, speaking in Russian. He doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second, nor do the men behind him. Whatever he’s saying, I don’t understand a word. There weren’t many Russian speakers where I grew up in Chicago.

Finally, he hangs up and glares at me. “Follow me.”

I follow him inside. It’s a long walk to the manor building, and as much as I want to, I try not to gawk at the obscene display of wealth. The driveway is lined with extravagant flowers and statues of angels - some smiling serenely, others weeping. How fitting.

My heart threatens to burst from my chest as we reach the entrance and climb the staired porch. The door opens, and another man emerges. This one is built like a brick wall and just as friendly. He skewers me with a look of pure hatred, and I can tell he’s killed me a dozen times in his mind already.

Still, I match his glare, fury bubbling in my veins. He’s got no right to look at me like that, not when his boss has my papa’s blood on his hands. Fuck, I’d kill him if I could. I’d kill all of them.

“Alya Varkov.” He spits my name as if it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. “Follow me.”

The security guys leave, and I follow Mr. Sunshine inside. The grand entrance hall swallows me whole. Marble floors gleam beneath my feet, probably polished by the tears of Mikhail’s enemies. Towering columns seem to stretch up endlessly to the ceiling, while ornate chandeliers hang from above, their light casting a warm glow over the velvet drapes and ornamental furniture. My eyes dart from corner to corner, each stuffed with lavish decorations and expensive artwork.

Mikhail’s wealth is legendary. It’s amazing how much money you can pocket during a short stint as shadow Pakhan after offing the competition.

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I shove the rage down deep as we enter what must be the living area.

And there he is. The monster himself.

Mikhail Zirkhov.

He’s sprawled on one of the couches, legs crossed, looking for all the world like he owns the planet. A vicious smile slashes through his face as his pristine blue eyes lock onto mine.

He’s… not what I expected. At all.

For all these years, I’ve pictured some twisted old ghoul, a physical manifestation of evil. But the man before me?

Hell, he might be the most irresistibly handsome creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.

His dark hair is artfully tousled, framing a face that belongs on a billboard. And that jaw could cut diamond. The suit he’s wearing is fighting a losing battle against broad shoulders and biceps that threaten to split the seams.

“Ms. Varkov?” He calls my name like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, like he’s savoring every letter. “We finally meet.”

And his voice… dear God. It’s a smoky baritone that vibrates through my bones, tinged with the barest hint of a Russian accent. It steals my breath from my lungs.

Fucker.

He tilts his head, and this time, the smile playing on his lips is pure sin. His hungry gaze rakes over me, leaving me feeling naked and exposed. Then he gestures to a chair positioned across from him. “Come. Have a seat.”

I bite back a scoff. As if I’d willingly sit and chat with him after what he did. I’d much rather put a bullet between those pretty blue eyes. “No.” I hold up the envelope, my shield and my mission. “I’m not here to chat. I’m here to deliver a message. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Bring it to me.” His tone is all command.

I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his orders. But that will only provoke him. I’m in his home right now, surrounded by his men. He could kill me without breaking a sweat or mussing that perfect hair. So, despite the rebellion simmering in my gut, I force myself to approach, envelope outstretched.


Articles you may like