Page 16 of Hers to Command

I find my clothes strewn across the floor, pulling them on quickly, and ignore the dried cum on my upper thigh.

Riccardo shifts in the bed, his eyes half-open as he watches me get dressed. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just watches, which is fine by me, since I don’t have the time or the energy to explain.

And then he goes and ruins a good thing.

“Anya?” His voice is rough, still heavy with sleep. He props himself up on his elbow, studying me. “Where are you going?”

“I need to leave,” I say, stating the obvious while slipping my jacket on, my voice colder than intended. I can see the flicker of confusion, and something else, maybe annoyance, crossing his face. After last night, he’s probably expecting me to start playing wifey for him. Or at least fall into whatever role his usual mistresses perform. The thought makes annoyance flare in me, but I choose to ignore that. I’ve got bigger problems right now.

“My father needs me.”

His expression hardens. “Business?”

I glance at him briefly, my mind already miles away, back in my father’s house, wondering what I’ll find when I get there. The irony of Riccardo’s question might have pissed me off otherwise. Business? Yeah, right. The day my father dies would be the day he’d include me in the business. And then the idea of my father actually being so poorly he’s dying works like a cold shower and pulls me back into reality.

Riccardo is a tool. I don’t need to explain myself to him. Last night was fun, but the deal we sealed is what I really need him for. Nothing more. Which is why I deflect his question. “All of this is business. I told you from the start. And right now, I’ve got to go.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue, just watches me with those unreadable eyes, sitting up fully, the sheets falling around his waist. The sight of him like that, shirtless and mussed up but still looking in control somehow, sends an unwanted heat through me. But I shove it aside.

I grab my jacket and head for the door, moving through the house to the main door in a daze. The drive to my father’s house and the way up the stairwell to the upper floor where his bedroom is feels too long, like it’s stretching out, but somehow I’m at my father’s bedroom door faster than I expected. It’s not fully closed and I push it open without knocking.

The air in the room is heavy. Stale. It makes me want to yell at the men in the room for not opening the windows, but then my eyes land on my father. He is lying on the bed, propped up by pillows, his skin pale and drawn tight over his bones. Doctor Beskin is sitting next to him with a serious expression, and the moment his eyes meet mine, I know. Not just suspect, but really know.

“It’s time, Anya,” the doctor says softly, standing up to give me room. “His lungs are failing. The complications... they’re too much. I’ve administered the medications.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. Cystic fibrosis. It’s been a shadow hanging over him for as long as I can remember, but actually losing him... I take a step forward, my eyes locked on my father’s face. His eyes flutter open when I reach his side, and for the first time in my life, he looks small.

“Anya...” His voice is barely a rasp, each word a struggle. He tries to smile, but it’s weak, fragile. “You... came.”

“Of course I came,” I whisper, moving closer. I sit beside him, my hand hovering before I finally take his cold, shaking one in mine. “Papa...”

He coughs, a dry, wheezing sound that makes my chest ache.

I turn to the doctor. “How could he have taken such a drastic turn? I just saw him yesterday. He was fine.”

The doctor shakes his head. “He wasn’t fine, Anya. Your father hasn’t been fine for a long time. You know that. His chronic cough has been worsening and his pulmonary functions have been declining rapidly. Yesterday evening, he developed a high fever. He’s received the medication he’s requested, and that kept him going this past month, but his body isn’t able to sustain that kind of treatment anymore.”

I can read between the lines of what the doctor isn’t straight up telling me. My father has been taking medications that people getting legitimate hospital care wouldn’t have access to. Probably for a good reason.

I look at my father. He would have taken anything that would let him hang on to as much of his capacities as possible. And now, none of it is helping anymore, so he’s taken the kind of meds that won’t make him live on when he can’t be the one in charge anymore.

The doctor murmurs something about giving us privacy and slips out of the room, but I barely notice. All I can see is my father’s face, and the pain etched into every line.

He’s made me so angry. And now he’s hurting me more than he ever did before. Because he’s about to leave me.

“I did... everything for you,” he says, his voice thin and brittle. “Everything... to protect you. Marry Dmitri,detka. He will keep you safe. The Bratva... needs strength. You... you need someone to care for you. Dmitri... will do that.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood. This is what he thinks will save me—marrying a man like Dmitri, aman I want nothing to do with. But at this moment, looking at him, so fragile and desperate to believe he’s done the right thing, I can’t bring myself to argue.

“I know, Papa,” I say softly, my voice steady even as something inside me twists at the lie. “I know you meant well.”

His lips tremble as he tries to speak again, but the words don’t come. I squeeze his hand gently. I’ll never marry Dmitri, but my father doesn’t need to know that. Just like he never found out that I’ve done far more for running his operations than Mikhail ever did.

This is his end, and he needs to believe in the choice he made. Even if it’s wrong. That’s the last thing I can give him as his good little girl.

“You’ve... always been my strong girl,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting closed again. “Be... a good girl, Anya. For me. Promise me.”

The air catches in my throat, thick and heavy, but I nod, even though he can’t see me.

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