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“But you won’t,” he rasps, squeezing the words past the pressure of my palm. A laugh bubbles up from somewhere in his chest, wet and choking. “Because I’m the only heir you’ve got.”

Again, he’s right.

If all the bodies I’ve left in my wake, all the blood and sweat and tears, add up to this, and upon my death, it all unravels, what was the point?

I’m fucked either way. Either it wastes into nothingness, or I hand it over to this steely-eyed upstart.

What a cosmic joke. This is what I have to show for my life’s struggle: a son who hates me, a legacy built on buried bones, and a woman half my age I have no business wanting.

Sneering in disgust, I release him.

I step back, putting distance between us before the animal in me does something the man will regret. My cuffs have ridden up during our little altercation; I tug them straight, one then the other.

“Kill the reporter by the end of the month,” I say. The ice is returning, thank God. “Or I give her everything she needs to destroy you instead of me.”

Kir rubs his throat where my fingers left their mark. His eyes blaze with hatred so pure it’s almost beautiful. The kid inherited that from me, at least.

“And Rae?” he asks.

“Rae is mine. Touch her again, and I’ll forget you’re my son.”

We both know I mean it.

We both know that’s the problem.

I turn and I leave and I don’t look back.

The door hasn’t even finished closing behind me when I hear the sharp crack of glass shattering, followed by the dull thud of something expensive meeting its end against a wall.

I welcome it. Let the boy rage. He’ll throw his tantrum like the petulant child he’s always been, despite the designer suits and corner office thatIgave him. In the end, he’s only hurting his own cause.

Because angry men make mistakes. They act without thinking, move without calculating, and expose their soft underbellies to anyone patient enough to wait.

And I am nothing if not patient.

All my years in this game have taught me that much. You don’t build an empire by losing your temper. You build it by channeling that fuel into something useful—into leverage, or pressure, or above all, the slow, inexorable squeeze that makes your enemies destroy themselves.

Kir thinks he hates me now? He has no fucking idea.

All I have to do is push a little more. Apply the right pressure to the right cracks. And my son—my disappointing, defiant, predictable son—will crumble.

The elevator arrives with a soft chime. I step inside, straightening my cuffs one more time.

Behind me, something else breaks.

45

RAE

WEDNESDAY MORNING

LAZAREV GLOBAL — FACILITIES WORK ORDER #LG-40-1202

Location: Conference Room 40-A

Priority: URGENT

Request: Deep clean Chair #3. It’s soaking wet.