6. Rashid
RASHID
I climb into the back of the black Mercedes and slam the door. The driver looks up at me in the rearview mirror, obviously catching the hint that I’m upset. “Home,” I growl, and the car rolls forward before I even fully settle in.
My blood still hums from the sight of Emory, three years older, still impossibly beautiful, and now carrying a secret that changes everything.
My jaw is clenched tight as I play out the image in my head again, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try not to think about how she kissed that baby on the head and played with his hair.
Too familiar to be a friend or distant family member.
My gut is screaming, and red flags wave around me like a parade banner.
Devid sits across from me in silence, watching the city slide past the tinted windows, but I feel his eyes on me when he finally speaks. “Rashid, you need to keep your head on the Gusevs. That shipment is gone. Farid is dead. This is not the time to chase a woman.”
If this man only knew half the story, which he doesn't, he'd understand I’m not chasing a woman.
I'm hunting a lead, which I thought would be something to make this fight for retribution simpler.
The image burns behind my eyes.
No stranger receives touches like that. No casual acquaintance makes a woman’s eyes go soft and bright the way hers did.
That boy is hers.
He has to be.
And that friend of hers, the same one from that club that night, she must be the nanny or something.
The thoughts nag at me until I'm fully convinced that boy is mine and Emory has kept him from me.
I could be generous and allow myself a bit of indulgence to think the child could be the friend's.
But the adrenaline in my veins at the shock of what I saw won't allow it.
My mind has been made up.
I just have to wait for confirmation, now.
“She has a child,” I growl, scowling at him with all the anger I can muster. I'm fuming, unable to think rationally at all. My logical mind says that it could be someone else's kid. She could've had another one-night stand or for fuck's sake, it could be the friend's. I just can't shake it.
Devid exhales through his nose. “I saw. Cute kid. But he's not your problem right now. Gusev is carving out your routes, man. You don't have time to get pissed off about that. You're gonna lose money fast, and no one can stop it if you don’t get your head in this game."
I turn my head and pin him with a look that would make most men piss themselves. Devid only lifts an eyebrow.
He's worked for me long enough I know he's probably right, even when it pisses me off.
“I saw how she looked at him,” I continue, ignoring his warning. “I'll make her regret every single breath she took without telling me.”
Devid rubs a hand over his face. “Listen to me. We lost seventeen million rubles. If Gusev takes the southern corridor, we lose the rest of that route and our suppliers in Afghanistan. You can't afford to be distracted by a woman and a kid right now. This is bigger than one night three years ago.”
“I can afford whatever the fuck I want,” I snap, but he's right. Seventeen million rubles isn't pocket change.
It isn't devastating, but the results of my trade route and suppliers being lost could be ten times that.
As much as I want to stew on this, I have to get my head out of my ass and figure out what's going on.
“Find out everything about that boy. I want birth records, doctor visits, who the mother lists as the father on every form. And dig deeper on Emory. I want to know every class she takes, every friend she has, every place she sleeps at night. If that child's mine, she's going to explain herself."
Devid sits back with annoyance scrawled across his scrunched face and furrowed brow, but he remains quiet the rest of the ride.
I sit with my elbow on the armrest and my hand covering my mouth as I concentrate on what I think I saw.
It was too far away for me to make out details of the boy's face, but my guess is he probably looks like me.
The anger roiling around my chest makes it difficult to calm down.
I'm not sure if I'm angrier because Emory kept a secret from me or because in all my searching I never once got the faintest hint that she could've hidden it from me.
I knew where she’s gone to school the past three years, but not once did I stop to investigate her deep personal life.
She's been hidden too, moving around frequently—which should've tipped me off.
Oleg must be in deep with the Gusevs.
Why else would he be so shifty?
And keeping his daughter under his thumb too.
It's such an obvious thing to me that I overlooked without thinking about it. I was distracted by business, and I never had a reason to investigate past where Emory spent her time.
Now I'm kicking myself.
By the time we pull up to the house, my mind has run through a dozen scenarios of what I might do to approach her again and confront her about this.
The wrought-iron gates swing open as the car rolls up the drive to park right in front of the house.
I wait for Devid to get out, then I slide out after him and stride inside.
I head straight for the study, shrugging off my coat as I go. The fire is already lit.
Flames dance behind the grate and warm the room as I pour myself a generous measure of vodka and knock half of it back before I even sit down.
The burn feels good.
It matches the fire in my chest.
There are a few ways I could go about this, and I'm not sure which one I want to pursue.
If I storm right in and demand answers, she could use the power of the Gusevs to flee and hide.
That's a horrible idea, considering Emory could be the only leverage I have against the man selling my secrets.
And there's another problem with that.
If I have no leverage to make him bow to me, I have no way of knowing how he got my secrets to begin with.
Or I could find out everything I know about her and that boy, and use it to my advantage.
Which seems like the only rational choice I have now.
I hit the intercom button and wait for it to click. “Send Mikhail and Igor up. And get me the tech boys too.”
A few minutes later the man straggles in, laughing and joking.
Devid hasn't informed them of my mood, apparently, because they don't seem to appear bothered by the scowl on my face until I slam my hand on the desk and stand up, glaring. “Emory Rostov has a child, roughly two and a half years old. I want every scrap of information on that boy by morning.
"Get me hospital records or DNA if you can. Don't let her know what you're doing; keep it quiet, and be thorough."
Mikhail shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Boss, I'm not one to question, but do you think this is smart?" He narrows his eyes at me skeptically as he continues. "Gusev could take the whole southern trade route and?—"
“I know about the Gusev situation,” I snarl, cutting him off. “Do I look worried about the trade situation?" My chest is hammering as I lean over the desk. I wish I’d downed the second half of that vodka. "I've given you orders and I expect you to follow them."
Igor clears his throat and glances at Mikhail nervously.
“We’re already stretched thin watching the tattoo parlor and the accountant’s known associates.
Adding round-the-clock surveillance on the girl and a kid means pulling men off other details.
The club, the warehouse security, the southern contacts?—”
“Then pull them,” I tell him, picking up my glass to down the rest of the liquor. “I don't give a shit if the club burns down tonight. This comes first. Emory and that boy are top priority. Get it done.”
Mikhail tries one more time, stepping forward slightly.
“Boss, think this through. If you go after her now, you tip your hand to her father.
Oleg's already neck-deep with Gusev. If he figures out you know about the kid, he might run or sell you out even faster. We need leverage, not another complication.”
I've never been one for controlling my temper.
They learn that the hard way as I launch the glass across the room at the fireplace.
The glass smashes on the stone, startling them.
“Rostov's a dead man walking. What I want is to know if I have a fucking son. Now get out—all of you. Bring me answers, not excuses.”
A few of them glare at me, but they file out of the room and close the door behind themselves.
My eyes land on the shards of glass on the ground by the hearth, reflecting the light of the flames.
I close my eyes and try to calm my raging pulse, but when I do the only thing I see is the wonder in Emory's eyes as she stared up at my Surikov in amazement.
It's gutting—not only that she snuck out like I was nothing more than a one-night stand and meant nothing to her, but that she could even think of hiding something like this from me for so long.
"Get control of yourself," I mumble, straightening and walking back to my liquor on the sideboard.
I pull a new glass out and fill it, then walk to the window where light snow has started to fall.
I don't know why I'm so angry. Emory wasn't mine to own, just to use for a night.
That's the way I work anyway. I never keep them around long, and they go on their merry way.
Women who've come to me in the past claiming to have my baby or be pregnant with my seed have always been gold diggers.
They see my wealth and think I'm an easy target.
But Emory wasn't like those women.
She never came back, though she never tried to hide purposefully either.
So why haven't I known about this kid until now?
I sip the liquor and rub my eye with my free hand.
My head is starting to hurt, a deep throbbing pain behind my eye that points to a stress headache. All from one day and one interaction.
Like an allergic reaction to the knowledge that the woman I've fantasized about for three years might have secrets from me.
Well, I'm going to find out if that kid is mine and if he is, hell hath no fury like me when I know I've been wronged. And Emory will have a lot of explaining to do.
I was set to terminate the man who leaked intel on me and his entire family line.
But Oleg Rostov, as much of a threat as he is, might very well be the grandfather of my child.
And if he is, can I really kill his daughter?