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While I consider myself more attuned to the music scene than anyone in New York, I’m still a nobody compared to the more experienced scouts. It doesn’t matter much that I landed a job at a very well-established recording company as soon as I got out of high school three years ago.
“The world can do without whatever information Papa wants to give me,” I mumble under my breath, still trying to block out the bright rays and hide from the world. My stomach protests at my movements.
“I wouldn’t make assumptions if I were you, printsessa.”
Igor’s warning tone freezes me on the spot. It’s the one he uses every time he pretends to have higher authority than he actually possesses, and he only uses this nickname whenever something bad is about to happen.
Slowly, I toss the pillows away and kick the blanket off my body, turning my attention to the open French window that’s facing the private garden. I place both palms over my face and rub my cheeks in an attempt to wake up. The cool silk of the ivory nightgown slips across my breasts and makes my nipples harden at the sensation. I could stay in bed. The temptation to ignore my father’s demand and simply relax on the comfortable pillows lingers, but I don’t dare.
I’ve seen enough of his world to know not to challenge the pakhan. Even the fact that I’m his favorite baby girl doesn’t protect me from his wrath.
Narrowing my eyes to slits, I watch him sitting under the gazebo by the pool. His jet-black hair is slicked back perfectly, revealing his deep blue eyes. With his hands curled on the white wicker armchair, he turns his head and beckons with his finger in a universal gesture for me to approach. Despite the drumming between my eyes, I huff and force myself to rise to my feet. This can’t be good, and despite the intense beating of my heart, I shove my feet into a pair of fluffy silver and gold house shoes, wrap my silk robe around me, grab a pair of sunglasses, and drag myself toward him.
He loves making people wait for the most earth-shattering news, enjoys watching their helplessness when they realize there’s nothing they can do about the predicament they’re in.
“Papa,” I greet him casually once I reach his chair, an overly friendly smile curved across my lips.
The sunglasses I’m wearing don’t help at all to make the daylight less painful to my brain. They only dull the pain.
“Ah, my little ray of sunshine,” he teases in his low, cold voice. “How lovely to see you this bright and early.”
“Is everything okay, Papa?” I ask, willing him to get to the point so I can go back to bed.
He sighs. The gesture is so unlike him that it makes me pause. Whatever’s going on must be more serious than I thought. My heart speeds up a notch, and my headache amplifies.
He watches me intently and with little emotion. Then a sad smile slowly spreads across his face. My eyes sink into his midnight blue gaze, and though I’m his favorite child, there’s nothing remotely resembling kindness in them. I can’t quite decipher what it is that I see. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was grief. I study his expression to try and figure it out, but all he does is give me a slight shake of his head.
“Sit down, Kata,” he says with another sigh. He pats the arm of the neighboring chair.
Defeated.
That’s the word I’m looking for. That’s the emotion in his eyes.
“Papa,” I say cautiously. “What’s going on?”
No reply.
“Just spit it out. I’m all ears,” I press.
With his left hand, he motions to a butler to pour him a glass of the vodka that’s already resting on the small, white table in front of him. Only after the small gesture does he turn, giving me the glass.
“Drink,” he orders gently, pressing it in between my fingers.
The cool and transparent surface slides across my skin. Still recovering from the night before, the bile in my throat threatens to rise. Knowing better than to complain, I give my father an obedient nod and bring the glass to my lips.
The liquid glides into my mouth, and a warm, mellow sensation spreads throughout my body.
“Holly crap, this is smooth,” I exclaim, surprised by the velvety feel despite its strength.
My father chuckles, the familiar lightness returning to his gaze. “Stoli Elit is the best,” he says, the grin not leaving his face.
I watch him carefully as he places his glass back on the table. The butler fills it up again, and Papa takes it and drinks it. He lets his body slump in his seat.
Despite his relaxed posture, a part of me remains cautious. His attitude can swing the other way in the blink of an eye. He’s one of those people that even a psychologist would have a hard time understanding, let alone a young, inexperienced girl like me.
That’s why I brace myself as much as I can, thinking up a thousand ideas of what this conversation could be about and trying to silence the violent pounding of my heart in my chest.
“Your brothers and I went to see Nikolai Volkov yesterday,” my father suddenly announces, a thoughtful expression etched on his face.
