Page 100 of Feral King

And it almost worked.

It almost worked, because somewhere between the rehearsed lines and the strategic pauses, there were moments that felt real, feelings from him that weren’t an act.

But I learned long ago that the best way to tell a lie was to add a little truth to it. And Alexander most certainly learned the same lesson. He is a gifted liar, after all.

And one of the key skills of a gifted liar is to make you hesitate, make you doubt yourself, even when you know they’re not telling the truth.

My father, the one who made me look out for my much younger half-brother, the one who taught me to think three moves ahead, the one who believed that his sons would work together to keep his empire running and not tear itapart through fighting, would be devastated to know what we’ve become.

That’s the part that breaks something in me. Not the politics, not the council, not the threats.

It’s the simple fact that my father,ourfather, raised me to look out for my little brother, and I’ve failed. I failed to stop him from becoming the man he is, the one who would betray his own blood.

I sigh, indulging just for a moment in thinking of a different world, one in which my half-brother and I are not rivals.

But that world is most certainly not this one.

I push the thought aside and pick up my phone to call Ethan.

“What’s up?” he answers.

“Double every security protocol for the council on Friday. I want eyes on every entrance and exit, every window, every car in a three-block radius.”

A pause. “You think Alexander’s play is real?”

I glance over at the empty chair.

“He came in here and told me exactly what I wanted to hear. So yes. I do.”

CHAPTER 37

JULIAN

The council meeting is in the back room of a bar in Brighton Beach that’s been closed to the public for years.

The room is long, with a low ceiling and a concrete floor. It’s illuminated by pale industrial lighting that turns everyone’s skin sallow. A single rectangular table runs the length of the space, and there are heavy wooden chairs on either side, along with one at the head—my chair.

Ethan and I arrive thirty minutes early. Ethan sweeps the room for devices and weapons. Every man attending will be armed, but it’s the surprises I’m worried about, like stashed sidearms or bugs for listening in.

Ethan gives the place the all-clear. As the heads file in one by one, he stands behind me, still as a statue.

Petrov, the port operations king from Newark, arrives first. He’s stocky, with a white beard. He gives me a nod. His support is confirmed and paidfor.

Zhukovsky, the real estate man, is next. He’s tall and gaunt. Another confirmed vote. He takes his chair without a word.

Then Morozov—the one who declared for Dobrov. He avoids my gaze as he enters. He slides into his seat, glancing at Dobrov’s empty chair. He’s got the shifty behavior of a guilty person, which, in a sense, he is.

The others file in: Federov, Kuznetsov, Baranov, and Semenov. They’re all old names, old money, and old blood. Men who remember my father, men who watched me grow up in this life.

Men who are anxious to see if the prodigal son has been worth the long wait.

Alexander enters next, dressed sharply, as usual, minus the tie. He’s dressed very similar to me, and I find myself wondering what kind of message he’s trying to send. That he’s on my side? Or that he wants to replace me?

Either way, it was a deliberate gesture. Alexander doesn’t make choices like that accidentally.

He takes the seat to my right, giving me a glance and a quick nod, silently saying:I’m with you.

I note it, but I don’t trust it.