Page 6

Tony pouted. “Where are you going?”

“Just to check up on my brother.”

His smile widened. “Will he be joining us? Your brother’s cute, and I’ve never had two brothers at once.”

I frowned, pushing him toward the bed. “Zasha’s straight, and even if he wasn’t, you wouldn’t be his type.”

“And what type is that?”

“He’s not into guys who exchange money for sex.”

Tony’s smile slipped. “When did I ask you for money?”

He was right. He hadn’t. But I was right too. By the end of the night, he would be leaving with some. Everyone on my turf already knew I was generous with whoever made it to my bed. They didn’t need to ask when they were aware of the score.

“Don’t worry, babe. Lucky for you, that’s exactly my type.”

“Then let’s have fun.” He pranced over to the bed and dove in the middle of the two women because, of course, he was an attention whore. He’d been trying to get me to notice him for the past three months.

One of the girls kissed him hungrily, and the other worked Tony’s shorts down his hips. Heat curled low in my gut.

But then—like an echo in my skull—Zasha’s words, spat at me earlier, came back to me.

You don’t know what that means because you’ve never loved anybody your whole life. You just fuck around with anyone on two legs, then kick them out of your bed,

I clenched my jaw and shook the thought away. A man in my position couldn’t afford to love. Hopefully, Zasha had learned that lesson earlier.

I shut the door on the giggles and moans and padded down the hall. Zasha’s door at the end was closed, no light spilling from beneath it. Guilt twisted in my gut. I hated that I’d broken his arm. Hated more that I’d had to.

I knocked softly. “Zasha. You up?”

Silence.

I knocked again, louder this time. “Bro, it’s me.”

Nothing.

A bad feeling coiled cold and sharp in my stomach. I pressed the handle and pushed the door open. The room was dark, but a draft chilled the space. I flicked the switch, and the light bared everything in a cruel wash.

The bed was still made, neat as he always kept it. The chair was tucked under his computer desk, but his laptop was gone. And the window hung wide open, curtains stirring in the night breeze.

I froze, breath caught in my throat.

Fuck no.

1

STAS

For the past two years, the Orlovs and the Zhukovskys had managed a truce. Fragile. Conditional. None of those conditions, however, had said a damn thing about sitting shoulder to shoulder in the back of a car with the most insufferable Orlov I’d ever met.

Yet here we were, and it was all my daughter’s fault.

When, after five years of not seeing each other, Yelena finally extended an invitation to spend Rozhdestvo—the Christmas holiday—with her and her husband, I’d expected pelmeni, sbiten, maybe a few awkward smiles across the table. I hadn’t anticipated being greeted, the moment I stepped out of the airport and into the waiting car, with the sharp edge of a blade at my throat.

The car door slammed shut, and the air inside changed—thickened, charged. Two predators, one cage. Neither willing to blink first.

His knife grazed my skin. My gun pressed against his forehead.