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All it takes is the memory of her grinding against my thigh, those breathy little whines she made, her hand palming me and her eyes going wide when she saw that I hadn’t overestimated by a single fucking inch…

I bite down on the inside of my cheek until the erection dies down. Then I get in my own car.

I have work to do.

My driver hands me the morning edition of theNew York Timesas I settle into the leather seat. Force of habit makes me flip it open, scan the headlines, and check for anything that might require immediate attention.

But I don’t get past the front page before something hits my like a fucking hatchet to the throat.

Under the main headline is a name that shouldn’t be there:

JILLIAN PIERCE

Front page. Above the fold. It’s a scathing piece about the exploitation of regulatory loopholes in the pharmaceutical industry—nothing to do with me or Elena.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that this woman isstill breathing.

I gave Kir one simple task—one—and my fuck-up of a son couldn’t even manage that.

What the fuck is Jillian Pierce still doing alive?

I specifically told him to handle it. The reporter is sniffing too close, asking questions about bones that have been buried for eighteen years. The right questions posed to the wrong people could unravel everything I’ve spent half my life building.

And my son, my heir, myblood—he failed.

My fingers tighten on the newspaper until the pages crumple. The driver glances in the rearview mirror. “Where to, Mr. Lazarev?”

“To the office,” I snarl. “I need to have a word with my son.”

The elevator deposits me on the fortieth floor. My anger grows with every step as I eat the distance to Kir’s corner office.

His receptionist, a waifish blond twenty-something witheager-to-pleasewritten all over her face, scrambles up from her desk as I approach. “Mr. Lazarev, sir, he’s in a meeting?—”

I don’t break stride.

“Sir, you can’t just?—”

My hand is already on the door handle. But I pause, just long enough to pin her with a look. “‘Can’t’?” I repeat softly.

The girl’s face goes the color of fresh snow. “I… I’ll hold his calls,” she whispers.

Smart girl.

Through the glass walls, I can see him holding court. Four hapless cronies in pressed suits are arranged around his desk, hanging on his every word.

Some kind of strategy session, no doubt. My son loves his strategy sessions almost as much as he loves disappointing me.

I don’t bother knocking.

The door slams against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed awards Kir keeps mounted there. Every head swivels in my direction. Four faces go pale in rapid succession.

Five, if you count Kirill’s.

“Out,” I bark.

Nobody moves at first.