21. Killian
21
KILLIAN
“ I ’m going to the Sokolov house to speak with Boris, man-to-man,” I state casually as soon as Lance and my kid sister, Quinn, settle into the ornately carved armchairs across my desk from me.
Though I’m confident that Natasha’s attempt to strangle me in the alley last night was a clear indication of Boris’s answer to my most recent marriage offer, I won’t be deterred.
In fact, the more times Natasha tries to kill me—and the more nights we spend together—the more determined I am to make her my wife.
Because the Russian vixen is dangerously intoxicating, inescapably alluring, and the most interesting, sexiest woman I’ve ever met. And I can’t get enough of her.
I will break the Sokolovs if that’s what it takes to make her mine, but I would much rather find a peaceful way to get what I want. Because I know how much Natasha’s family means to her. I can see it in the way she defends her father, how fiercely loyal she is to him—even if it means denying her feelings.
“You’re not,” Lance growls, his hands clenching into fists as he glares at me.
And Quinn gasps simultaneously, the shock and fear flitting across her freckled face as her lips part. “You’ve said yourself numerous times how dangerous the Sokolov family can be—especially on their own turf. You can’t possibly be serious,” she protests.
Quinn scoots forward in her chair, her green eyes imploring as she looks between me and Lance.
“It would be suicide,” Lance agrees. “You won’t come back—not after the feud we’ve started.”
My sister pales visibly, her look of horror intensifying as tears spring to her eyes.
“Don’t exaggerate,” I scold him. But he’s not entirely wrong. It’s a gamble, to be sure.
But I don’t care.
I’m willing to risk it because I’m not making any headway with my current tactic. And I’m not interested in simply bedding Natasha. I want so much more than that.
“I’m going. I didn’t call you in here to discuss it or negotiate. I’m simply informing you. Lance, you know what to do if I should be…detained.”
“ Killian, ” Quinn presses, the fear in her voice constricting my chest.
I don’t like worrying her. But I can’t keep waiting for the tide to shift in my favor.
And if the bruising around my throat is any indication, I suspect I won’t remain lucky enough to best Natasha’s assassination attempts indefinitely. It’s time to make a move.
“Lance, please talk some sense into my idiot brother,” she insists when I simply level her with an even stare. Quinn turns to my foster brother—who’s nearly twice her size.
“If you’re going, I’m not letting you go alone,” he states flatly.
And I grin. “I never thought you would.”
“What? No! ” Quinn objects in a huff. “I meant talk him out of going. Not join his idiotic death wish.”
I laugh, and my foster brother’s lips curl into a silent smile. I love my kid sister. In some ways, she’s more mature than the rest of the King men combined. Unfortunately for her, I’m in charge, and nothing she says is going to deter me this time.
“We’ll be fine, Quinn,” I assure her. Rising from my desk, I step around it to pull her in for a hug. “Believe it or not, Boris Sokolov can be a reasonable man. And we both know how charming I can be.”
“Except for the fact that you’ve just spent the past month antagonizing him,” she grumbles. “I can’t believe you think he’ll give you the time of day.”
“Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?” I tease.
“He could send your head back to me in a box,” she suggests, stepping out of my hug to glare up at me. Then her eyes flick to Lance. “ Both your heads.”
This time, Lance chuckles. “I promise I’ll bring your brother back in one piece.”
Color tinges my sister’s cheeks—a physical reaction she has whenever our foster brother speaks to her directly—and her chin tips impetuously toward the ceiling. “I’ll hold you to that promise. And while you’re at it, you better come home intact as well,” she scolds. Then she storms from the room, grumbling about idiot brothers who never listen to the voice of reason.
It takes some time before I put a strategy into place that satisfies my underboss and right-hand man. Lance spent an entire month’s worth of words arguing with me about how many men I should bring to the Sokolov house with us.
But in the end, we manage to compromise—so it’ll be just the two of us. But we’ll keep our men on standby. Just in case things get out of hand.
The front door of Central Park Tower opens onto a grand atrium with vaulted ceilings, modern gray-leathers seating, and a unique blend of chic elegance and visually intriguing decor. The shapes and angles of the pattern that reflects from the black-and-white floor to the open-concept partition separating the lobby from its lounge gives the space a sense of casual refinement.
And when I step up to the front desk, I’m met by the cool, crisp gaze of the receptionist, whose dark hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense French roll.
“How can I help you, Mr.…?”
She looks me up and down, a hint of curiosity flickering behind her stylish dark-rimmed glasses.
“I’m here to see Mr. Sokolov,” I state confidently, leaning one elbow on the counter as Lance looms obtrusively behind me.
Her eyes flick quickly in his direction, a hint of nervousness trickling into her gaze. Then she refocuses her attention on me. “Does he know you’re coming?” she asks.
“I thought I might surprise him,” I tease with a cocky grin.
“Just one moment.” She lifts the receiver from her desk phone and dials a four-digit number, then turns away from me, covering the mouthpiece with her hand as she holds a muffled conversation with whoever picks up. Finally, after stuttering several apologies, she hangs up and turns back toward me. “Unfortunately, he’s…busy at the moment,” she hedges.
But I can tell from the flush in her cheeks that the response she received was far less polite than that.
“I insist ,” I say, leaning further across the desk. “Please, just call him back one more time. Tell him it’s a matter of importance.”
“I-I…” The receptionist looks painfully uncomfortable at the thought of disturbing him again.
But when Lance cracks his knuckles and takes a step forward, she releases a shaky breath and grabs the phone to redial.
“Hi, yes, it’s Victoria again…” she says nervously. “Yes, I know. I—” She glances in my direction, the color slowly draining from her cheeks.
And before she can stop me or hang up, I pluck the phone from her hand.
“I would think that sparing the bastards who smashed up my club yesterday might earn me a modicum of good will. But if we need to come to a new understanding, that can be arranged,” I state calmly, watching Victoria squirm beneath my gaze.
“The pakhan has more important matters to attend to than an insufferable pest like you.”
I recognize the low, vitriolic voice as Maksim’s immediately.
“Maybe, but since you made such a good errand boy yesterday, I trust you can deliver one more message to your boss. And I suspect he’ll want to hear that I came to negotiate a peace.”
Crackling issues across the line as Maksim releases a heavy breath. Then, a grudging, “Fine.”
Several seconds of silence follow, and I offer Victoria a wink as we wait.
Finally, Maksim comes back on, and I can hear the aggravation in his tone. “Give the phone back to the receptionist. Men will be down momentarily to escort you up.”
I do as he commanded, passing the phone back to the terrified-looking receptionist. She stutters a quick acknowledgment before hanging up. Then she gestures toward the bank of elevators.
“You’ll want the last one on the left,” she says.
“Much obliged,” I say, tipping an imaginary hat at her before strolling toward the lift she indicated.
Lance follows wordlessly, and within minutes, we’re riding the elevator up to the Sokolov penthouse with four burly Russians. Between them and the considerable frames of me and Lance, the confined space feels less than ideal. And it doesn’t help that they all scowl at us, their arms crossed in a blatant display of intimidation.
Maksim is among them, and I tease him with a bit of light chitchat—none of which he responds to, preferring to stay in sullen silence as he glares at me through his one good eye. The other is still swollen shut, the bruising turning nearly half his face a deep shade of purplish blue.
“Has someone looked at that?” I ask, pointing at his black eye. “It’s not pretty, my friend.”
Maksim’s jaw ticks, the tendons popping beneath his skin as he grinds his teeth visibly. But before he can respond, the doors open onto the rather impressive entry of the Sokolov home.
And Boris is already waiting for me.
His expression is nothing short of hostile, and he greets me stiffly, his gray eyes—just like Natasha’s—cold and steely in his suspicion.
“Shall we go to my office for this…meeting you’ve insisted upon?” he suggests.
“After you,” I say, gesturing to indicate I’ll follow.
He leads the way, and I can’t help but glance around, taking in the pristine marble floors, the vaulted ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch across one entire wall and look out on the bustling city.
It’s surprisingly hard to visualize Natasha in this home.
I much prefer to picture her in mine.
Still, I enjoy the thought of walking down the halls she frequents, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s here. I hope so.
As Boris steps into his office, something of a standoff occurs behind me—Maksim refusing to let Lance in without his pakhan ’s express permission. But Lance won’t stand down until I give the signal.
I do, gesturing for my foster brother to wait outside the door, then I close it behind me. Boris settles behind his desk. It’s a beautiful piece that looks as though it’s made of solid mahogany, and though he does have a laptop off to one side, something about the room gives the space a sense of old-timey, classical mafia boss authority.
“So, you’ve come to talk peace?” Boris asks as I settle into the chair across from him. Amusement tugs at the corners of his lips, as if he’s in on some secret.
“I came to discuss my proposal that perhaps I delivered in a less-than-acceptable manner a while back. Sometimes, I let my rather unfortunate sense of humor get the better of me, but in truth, Boris, I would very much like to make an alliance with your family. And I would like to do so by marrying one of your daughters to prove my sincerity.” It’s as close to an apology as I’ve ever given anybody. But I’m willing to swallow the bitter mouthful of humility if it gets me what I want.
Natasha.
Boris laughs, the deep sound mocking as he throws his head back. And when it finally subsides, he levels me with an unforgiving gaze. “Are you getting desperate for an alliance now that you’re facing war on two fronts?” he taunts. “I heard what happened with the yakuza, and I can only imagine that’s headed down a bad road fast.”
So, that’s the secret Boris thinks he has to hold over me. He thinks I’m worried about Saturo. I smirk. No one so insignificant as that little worm could possibly intimidate me.
My cocky grin seems to goad Boris, though, and his wicked grin widens as he takes the opportunity to taunt me further. “You know what, Killian? Why don’t we discuss your offer over dinner? Perhaps it’s time my daughters weighed in on their fates.”
Anticipation coils in my stomach at the thought of seeing Natasha, and suddenly, I can’t wait to hear what she has to say. “Perfect.”