Chapter 30
CHAPTER
THIRTY
KIRILL
Varvara Morozova smiles at me from across the table for the third time in ten minutes, and I’m starting to understand why my father seated us directly opposite each other instead of side by side.
So I’d have to look at her.
Ruslan presides from the head of the table like a king holding court.
Vasily Morozov sits to his right, silver-haired and sharp-eyed.
Irina Morozova to his left, diamonds at her throat, the picture of refined Moscow wealth.
And their twenty-something daughter, Varvara, between them.
Porcelain skin, delicate features, pretty in a totally forgettable way.
She’s dressed in head-to-toe beige cashmere, which kind of sums up her personality perfectly.
My father said this dinner was important. That I needed to meet his new business partners from Russia, but what their business is together, I still don’t know.
“Kirill.” Vasily grins at me across the table, butchering the delicate fish on his plate. “Your father has been telling us about your work modernizing the bratva’s operations. Bringing everything into the digital age and diversifying the family’s portfolio. Impressive.”
Funny, I’ve never heard those words of praise from my father.
“Someone has to,” I say, reaching for my wine.
A subtle dig at my father, who clearly dragged me all the way here to perform like a trained dog.
I get that he wants to expand operations in Russia, that the Morozovs control shipping routes and have political connections.
But every minute I’m sitting here making small talk is a minute I’m not spending hunting for the Ghost.
Or dealing with the captive locked in my penthouse.
“Exactly right.” Vasily nods enthusiastically. “The old ways served their purpose, but times change. You can’t run a twenty-first-century operation with twentieth-century thinking.”
Varvara glances at me, then quickly looks away when our eyes meet. She’s done it four times now since we sat down. Shy little glances, like she’s been told to make eye contact but doesn’t quite have the nerve.
She’s the perfect portrait of a bratva bride, a woman designed to sit quietly at a table and never cause a scene.
But there’s nothing more to her. No fire. No edge.
Evelina is all sharp angles and fuck-you attitude with a body that makes me forget why I’m supposed to be angry at her. A riot of color in a world of grayscale.
Why am I even comparing them?
Irina turns her attention to me, her smile devoid of warmth.
“We were just talking about it last night, weren’t we, Varvara?
” When she looks at her mother, confused, Irina gives her a hard stare.
“About embracing change, remember, darling?” Then to me, “Varvara studied interior design at the Stroganov Academy. One of the most prestigious programs in Moscow, as you surely know. She’s very adaptable.
Understands the importance of creating a proper home, of supporting her family’s position in society. ”
I don’t know shit about the Stroganov Academy, but I nod because what else can I do.
“She redesigned our entire penthouse last year,” Vasily adds, the pride in his voice reminding me of someone showing off a prize dog at Westminster. “ Architectural Digest wanted to feature it, but we value our privacy.”
Varvara ducks her head, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “It really wasn’t that impressive.”
“Don’t be modest,” Irina chides. “In New York, there are so many opportunities. So many people who appreciate real talent. Perhaps Kirill knows people who might need her services?”
My father jumps in before I can answer that no one I associate with gives a shit about interior design features in glossy magazines.
“I’m sure he could make some introductions. Kirill has excellent connections in the city.”
I set my fork down carefully. “You’re moving to New York?”
“She is,” Vasily says, exchanging a very obvious look with my father.
“We’ve been looking at properties in Manhattan.
Somewhere close to the cultural centers, the museums. A young woman of her education and background needs the right connections, not to mention, needs to be on the arm of the right man. ”
The pieces are coming together, but I don’t like the picture they’re forming. A slow, brutal throb builds at my temples and spreads outward.
It’s been a hell of a day. This morning I left Evelina locked in a bedroom while my men dig into her real identity.
After, I went to Velour to handle business, and Oksana cornered me within five minutes asking where Evelina was, why wasn’t she answering her phone, was everything okay.
I told her Evelina had to fly home to deal with a family situation, which only made Oksana more suspicious.
Spent the rest of the afternoon analyzing the Ghost’s latest hit on the Irish docks, hunting for a pattern in the chaos, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the pretty captive who makes me want to burn down everything just to see what she’d look like in the flames.
And now I’m here, watching Varvara Morozova smile politely while her parents negotiate her future like she’s a business asset they’re trying to move.
“Kirill.” My father’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
He’s staring at me with the look that says pay attention.
“Vasily and I have been discussing a deeper partnership between our families. More than just business arrangements. Something that would tie our interests together in a more permanent way.”
The wine turns sour in my mouth.
They’re talking like terms have already been agreed on, like I’m just here to smile and nod. My hands tighten around my fork.
“Managing family business while dealing with security threats is stressful,” Vasily continues, his tone conversational but his eyes hawk-like. “I’m sure we could help you with those challenges … if our families were properly aligned.”
My mouth curls in distaste. Ruslan’s been running his mouth about the Ghost to these people? He thinks we need their help? Guess he isn’t that confident in me after all.
This dinner isn’t about shipping routes or supply chains or whatever product they keep talking about moving from Russia to here; it’s all a bullshit excuse to introduce me to the woman my father wants me to marry.
“That’s why strong partnerships matter,” my father says smoothly. “Why the right alliances matter when we’re looking toward the next generation. The kind of bond that secures a legacy.”
He lifts his wine glass and looks directly at me, then at Varvara, the meaning so clear he might as well have announced our engagement over the entrée.
Vasily raises his glass in response. Irina follows. Varvara hesitates, then lifts hers with trembling hands.
I don’t move a muscle.
I have ten days left. Ten days to prove I can catch the Ghost and save Katya from being married off to Elio. And here he is, toasting to my future with Varvara Morozova like it’s already decided.
Like he never believed I’d succeed in the first place.
Hours ago he stood in my penthouse and told me he had faith in me. That this was my chance to prove I was ready to lead. That he trusted me to handle the Ghost situation.
It was all bullshit. He was already planning this dinner. Already negotiating terms with the Morozovs. Already deciding who I’d marry while pretending to give me a fair shot.
“To new beginnings,” my father says, this time with an icy edge, still holding his glass up, waiting for me to play along.
Fuck that.
I push my chair back. The legs scrape against the floor, loud in the sudden silence.
“I have to go,” I say.
Vasily’s smile wipes off his face while Irina drops her hand to the table, her rings clicking against the china. Varvara stares at her plate like she’s trying to disappear into it.
My father doesn’t move, but his expression goes cold. “Sit down, Kirill.”
“No.” The single word sucks the air right out of the room. I look at the Morozovs. “My apologies for cutting the evening short. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
I turn and head for the door.
“Kirill.” My father’s furious voice follows me out of the dining room, but I don’t stop. His chair scrapes back, his footsteps pounding in the hallway behind me.
I’m almost to the front door when he catches up.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he seethes. “You walk out on this dinner. You insult the Morozovs. You damage an alliance I’ve been building for months.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have ambushed me.” The anger I’ve been holding back bleeds into my voice. “You never thought I’d catch the Ghost. You gave me an impossible task and then set up your fallback plan before I even had a real shot. You wanted me to fail so you could force this.”
His spine stiffens, but he keeps his expression schooled. “What I want is for you to think strategically instead of emotionally. The Morozovs offer exactly what we need to secure the next fifty years of this family’s dominance.”
I step forward, closing the distance until we’re inches apart. “What are they really offering you? You and Vasily talk in riddles and codes, but what exactly is this business venture you’re planning?”
“You’d find out if you did your rightful duty and married Varvara instead of letting yourself get distracted with that whore of a Velour server. You think she’s in the same league as Varvara? Not even close.”
I let out a harsh, dry laugh. Why the hell is he bringing Evelina up now?
“You’re old enough to know how this world works. I married your mother for strategy, because it benefited me and our empire; it had nothing to do with love. It never does.”
The mention of my mother causes a sudden, sharp ache that catches me off guard.
“Don’t you ever use her name to justify your business deals.
My jaw locks so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t shatter.
“How long have you been planning this? Deciding my future while I’m here busting my ass hunting the Ghost.”
“If we ally with the Valentis and the Morozovs through marriage, we’ll be powerful enough to wipe the Ghost off the face of the earth. I wanted you to see for yourself that you’ll only get so far on your own. Strategic alliances are necessary.”
I clench my hands as the space between us feels suffocatingly small. “I have ten days left. A deal is a deal.”
He doesn’t blink, his pale eyes locking on me with chilling focus. “A deal is a deal,” he finally echoes.
I push open the door, having nothing more to say to my old man. He doesn’t follow me outside, but he stays in the doorway, watching as I throw my leg over the bike and jam the helmet on.
I fire up the engine and gun it down the driveway without looking back.
The roads wind down through the hills, curves and switchbacks that demand focus. I push the bike faster, the speed burning off the anger still simmering under my skin.
Halfway to the city my phone buzzes repeatedly.
Finally I pull over at an overlook, kill the engine, and yank the phone from my pocket. Miron’s name lights the screen.
“What,” I clip out, all patience drained from me.
There’s a pause on the other end, and I know before he speaks that whatever comes next will change everything.
“We got an ID on Evelina Panova,” Miron says. “And you’re not going to fucking believe who she is.”