Page 56 of Ruin

Faking it.

“What do you want? I’m a busy man,” I turn my palms over, backs of my hands to the arms of the chair. “I have appointments,” I smile, and a sly one mirrors on his own mouth.

“Yes,” he hums, dragging out the word, rolling his eyes over my office, the camera feed. “I can see you are…” his gaze leisurely falls back to mine, “…rushed off your feet.”

I say nothing, still grinning, showing off all of my straight white teeth. He swallows, thickly, his fat neck rolling with the barest hint of his Adam’s apple.

“Well, I really only dropped in to say hello,” he lies, “to check on your wellbeing,” I keep grinning. “Perhaps, I shall see you later on tonight,” he rumbles, Russian accent thick. “At The Glass House,” his dark brows raise on his forehead. “There shall be a VIP area arranged for me, Nephew?”

I nod, flicking my head at Dima, who shifts his standing position at my side but says nothing.

“That all,Dyadya?” I lift my brows, still grinning.

He swallows again, stubbing out his cigar on the cherry wood of my desk. His meaty hands curling over the thick arms of his chair, aiding him in pushing to stand. He gets to his feet, the chair screeching over the wooden floor as he shoves it out of his way with the backs of his legs. Planting a palm on the edge of the desk, thick gold ring with the Ivanov family’s emblem engraved in the round face of it staring back at me, one that matches my own, he beams down at me.

“I shall be there at eleven if you’d like to meet me for a drink,” his brows rise again, his finger tapping the desk.

I stare at it, still grinning, and then I stand too, towering over him from the opposite side of the desk. I straighten my shirt, fix my collar.

“Maybe,” I smile back, “Good day, Uncle Leonid.”

I round the desk, gesturing with my arm extended for him to leave first. He purses his lips, taps the table once more and I follow him out of the door that opens into the room from the other side. The hallway is lined with my men, armed and stoic and waiting for any reason to shoot. If I could get away with killing my uncle here and now, it’d have been done over an hour ago.

Leonid walks through, eyeing each of them as I follow closely behind, grinning at the back of his skull, imaging the heel of my foot cracking through it.

I walk behind him until we reach the back door. Cold air rushing in as I push down on the bar, shouldering it open.

“I can get you a good arms deal,” he says then, one foot out of the door. “From Russia, it will be the best you can get. Better than dealing with theseduraki.” I thumb my bottom lip, stare down at him, his short, round frame almost a foot shorter than me. “You won’t need the Italians,” he sneers with disgust, and my skin prickles beneath my clothing.

I grin lazily at him, dipping down, so my face is in line with his.

“I don’t needanyone,” I smile, enunciating my last word, nose twitching at his stench, stale cigars, too much aftershave. “I like Vito,” I shrug, his small mouth popping open. Letting that sink in, I step aside, turning back in towards my office. “Don’t fuck up whilst you’re here,Dyadya,” I call over my shoulder, glancing back, Dima sentry beside him, waiting for my uncle to exit. “I am Pakhan now.” It’s a reminder, the threat only mildly laced through, and the way his eyes narrow, I know it hit. “Enjoy my club.”

Shoulder pinching with every light sway of my arm as I make my way back to my office. The pain having returned to the freshly healed stab wound, reinjured during the warehouse blast. Reminding me how I should absolutely not be thinking of Charlie Swallow. His pale scarred skin, etched with carvings ofmyfucking name, hidden beneath layers and layers of shadowy black ink. Vicious emerald eyes and cutthroat smile. I think of what we would be doing right now, if we were together, far, far away from here and it almost chokes me.

Chapter26

Kazimir

Eighteen feet of spiked black steel stands before me, the call box untouched to my right. My arse rests back against the side of my car, unlit cigarette between my lips, keys digging into my cold palm.

I stare up at the Swallow family’s home.

Aged stone brick, large windows. Rectangular, black lanterns hooked on short posts lining the long curving driveaway. Darkened windows and double doors leading out onto stone balconies, I know which room is his. Red bulbs, the rest, walls, sheets, carpet, all of it black. I have only ever been inside once, but I have ventured through the underground tunnels to his private sanctuary many times before. Never once being let inside. The place is guarded and armed better than Buckingham fucking Palace.

Yet, I am determined, tonight, to get inside.

To find my boy.

I don’t know what in the fuck it is I’m doing.

Here, now, why.

But my body thrums with nervous energy, an anxious need to get to him,seehim.

It’s Friday which means it’s Fight Night, nobody else will be here. But I know that he is. I always know, I can feel him better than my own consciousness some days. It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been apart, separated by circumstance, fear. My heart will always bleed for him because no matter what, we can never be together, will never, our worlds are too similar and too different to be anything but what we are now.

The Russian King.

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