Chapter 4
Roman
My patience snaps.
I pull out the gun from under my desk and aim it at this fucker droning on about shit that doesn’t matter.
I pull the trigger.
My assistant jumps at the crack but then glares down at the body. “I’ll take care of it, sir.”
“I know you will, Andrei.”
I replace the gun and turn in my chair, staring out of the window.
“Roman.” The deep baritone of my father’s voice cuts through the silence. “Was that necessary? This is our home.”
“He was giving me excuses. The Isle of Dogs operation should’ve been clean cut. Not the mess he turned it into.”
“Agreed,” Baron says, and I turn around to stare at him. He is an older version of me. I scrutinise him for a few seconds, as he takes a seat and crosses his legs at the knee. “You are distracted, no?”
Andrei grabs the dead weight of the disappointment by the ankles and drags him across the floor, leaving a streak of crimson on the Persian rug. It’ll need cleaning. Again.
“Calculating,” I say, meeting his gaze. The old man is sharp, but he doesn’t see everything.
“The Antonov territory is unstable,” I continue, walking over to the drinks cabinet. I pour two vodkas, neat and hand one to him. “Chaos is a ladder, but only if you know where the rungs are.”
“I want that ledger.”
“You’ll get it.”
“Do you think Nik knows?”
I contemplate that for a moment, taking a sip and letting the alcohol burn down my throat. “No. Mikhail wasn’t stupid. I’d even be willing to bet he’s in it.”
“Even more reason to procure it.”
“You’ll get it.”
“You are willing to take on what was promised?”
“Always,” I say with a slow smile, even though we both know that’s a lie.
Zoya, though? She is a precious little bird who is in so much trouble right now.
She doesn’t even know it. She will be grieving; she won’t be thinking.
Her cousin is a snake. He will be offering her false promises to keep her sweet. He is threatened by her. It is amusing.
Baron scoffs and gulps back the vodka in one swallow.
He places the glass on the end of my desk as Andrei returns, pushing the enormous industrial carpet cleaner in front of him.
He plugs it in and snaps on a pair of ear protectors.
Baron rises and walks out. I follow as Andrei switches on the noisy beast and gets to work.
He is a good man. Young. Doesn’t answer back. Does as he is told without question.
We step into the hallway, the heavy oak door muting the whir of the industrial cleaner.
“Nik will try to consolidate power immediately,” Baron says, walking stiffly, with the gait of an ex-FSB officer. Only those in the know can tell, and it puts them on edge. Sometimes I have to wonder if he exaggerates it on purpose under certain circumstances.
“He won’t get it. He is an unknown,” I assure him, adjusting my cuffs. “Nik is a reactionary. He’s too busy measuring the drapes in Mikhail’s office to notice the walls closing in.”
“And Zoya?”
I stop walking. The mention of her name sends a familiar, dark electricity down my spine. “Zoya is the key. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s about to become the most dangerous piece on the board.”
“The wealthiest, you mean. She stands to inherit more than just her father’s vast estate unless Nik swipes it from under her.”
“He will try. But that’s what I’m here for, remember?”
Baron’s eyes narrow. “Mikhail made sure she is protected. Do what is necessary.”
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“Who is lecturing you? You are a grown-ass man who knows his role.”
A grown-ass man of thirty-five who shrinks to a five-year-old in this man’s presence.
I smile and let it wash over me, though my jaw clenches tight enough to crack teeth.
It was good advice from a past therapist—the only worthwhile thing he said before I had to shoot him.
I watch Baron walk away down the corridor, his spine stiff, his gait purposeful, and part of me wants to call him back, to explain.
He thinks this is purely business. Acquiring assets.
Merging territories. But Zoya isn’t just an asset to me.
She’s an inevitability I both crave and dread—a collision course I’ve been steering towards for years, ever since Antonov put her name at the top of that ledger.
Turning back into the office, the chemical pine reek of industrial carpet cleaner already overpowers the coppery tang of blood.
Andrei’s broad shoulders hunch as he works, his knuckles white against the machine’s handle, the rhythmic swish-suck of the cleaner echoing off the mahogany-panelled walls.
Scarlet-tinged water sloshes in the cleaner.
I step over the sodden patch on the Persian rug without breaking stride, my Italian loafers leaving faint impressions in the damp wool, and lower myself into the high-backed leather chair.
The leather creaks beneath me as I pull myself towards the gleaming desk where three manila folders wait, corners perfectly aligned. There are things to organise.
Andrei shuts off the machine with a flick of his wrist, and the silence descends like a velvet curtain, broken only by the soft patter of rain against bulletproof glass.
The ledger is the priority for the Voronov family.
But for me, it’s just the ticket to get through her front door.
Nik will be circling like a vulture, trying to intimidate her.
He’s crude. He lacks finesse. He will try to force her submission through fear alone.
But she is tougher than that, even if she doesn’t look like it.
To get to a woman like Zoya, you need to cut off the one thing she needs more than air to breathe.
Her lifestyle.
Without money, she has nothing. No home, no food, no fancy oak milk lattes, nothing.
She is as frivolous as she is stunning. But underneath a lioness sleeps, waiting for the right moment to be woken.
I intend to push her to the moment, but first, she needs to be trapped in a corner with nowhere left to go.
The London rain is still hammering against the glass, as I pick up my phone and make a call that will start the ball rolling on the end of her life as she knows it.