Page 69 of The Bratva Betrayal

Killian has always been the loud one, the firecracker, the one who says what everyone else is thinking. He makes no apology for it, and people love him for it, and on nights like this, watching him hold court with his fork in the air, I think he's the most genuinely alive person I've ever known.

Rian is quieter and more observant, steadier, which means when he talks, people listen. He is the first person in the room to see what’s going on beneath a performance, and he’s the person I trust most in this family because of it.

Which makes knowing I’m lying to him tonight that much worse.

In about an hour, one of them will find out what my father asked me to do, and neither will be able to fix it. I’m going to have to watch them try anyway.

I'm reaching for the breadbasket when I feel my father behind me.

It’s not a sound. Just the subtle shift that happens when someone used to commanding a room walks into it.

"Caitlin."

Low. Private. Not for the room.

I set the basket down and straighten the linen in front of me because I want ten more seconds before whatever comes next.

Then I turn.

"Da."

He's dressed well, as always. Charcoal suit, no tie because we're home, silver threading further into his red-gone-grey hair. His eyes are the same piercing blue all three of us inherited from him.

"Walk with me," he instructs.

I glance back at Killian, who is demonstrating something with his fork that's making the table erupt with laughter, and then at Rian, who's watching us leave with quiet attention.

I follow my father down the hall and into his study, which smells of leather, old books, and the ghost of cigars he's not supposed to smoke anymore but still does when he thinks no one's paying attention.

He moves to the window with his hands clasped behind his back.

I stay near the door.

"Have you made any progress?" he asks. "With the Volkov bratva."

"I've been working it," I reply. "Misha, the Manifold connection, both. It takes time."

"That's not what I asked."

"No," I agree. "It's not."

He turns from the window to look at me, and I see the faintly disappointed expression he's given me since I was old enough to push back on anything.

"Artem Makarov being in your space has slowed things considerably," he notes. "I understand that."

I keep my face even. "I'd have moved faster without a babysitter. If you'd sent your own men after the shooting instead of letting the Makarovs position theirs⁠—"

"The shooting was theater."

"Artem doesn't do theater," I say flatly. "He does results. He's not muscles and posture, Da. If you're underestimating him, you're making a mistake."

My father waves his hand to signify that he's heard me and decided I'm being emotional about it.

"I have other plans," he continues. "Better ones. Plans that will give us everything we need from the Makarovs without you having to extract it one dinner at a time."

"Okay."

"You're going to marry Misha Makarov."