Page 24 of Bound By the Bratva

"You made a mistake coming here," I say, stepping forward.

"You think I care about your threats? I want my daughter. I want my grandson. You can’t keep them this way. Holding them." He steps closer. "It's against the law."

I walk to him, fists clenched. Heat rises through my chest at the threat, but I won't strike him yet. He has no clue that I have Nikolai's paternity results and should any authorities come looking, I only have to show them. Anya won't say a word. She knows who I am and what my reach is. Even if they took Nikolai from me today, tomorrow, he would be right back here.

He snarls. "She never should have come back to you." He jabs a finger into my chest, and without thinking, my hand lashes out. My palm cracks across his face. He staggers into the piano. The bottle in his hand falls and rolls away.

"You will not raise your voice in my house," I bark, and he jolts out of his stupor momentarily before he glares. A red welt spreads across his cheek as he shakes his head in disbelief.

"She’s not yours. Neither is that boy. You’re a tyrant, a–a thief!" He grips his jaw where I hit him and his eyebrows dip in the center.

I grab his collar and shove him through two doors. They swing into the unlit parlor. The curtains are drawn, the air still. "Sit," I growl, forcing him into a chair.

He slumps forward, shoulders sagging under the strain of his breathing. Sweat soaks through his shirt, darkening the fabric across his chest and under his arms. I pace in front of him, my eyes locked on the broken mess he’s become.

"You don’t get to play father. You don’t get to pretend this is about love or duty. You dangled your grandson in front of men who would have carved him into pieces." Rage courses through every cell in my body, and this idiot is lucky he's family or his blood would be on my carpet.

"They’d never go that far." He still glares at me and jumps as I slam my hand on the table. He flinches and grabs the armrests of the chair to hold himself upright.

"Then you’re a fool. The Zharovs punish weakness. They would’ve mailed me his body in pieces. They would’ve used him to send a message."

He groans. "I just needed time. I didn’t mean?—"

"I’m fixing what you broke," I say, cutting him off. I circle him, stalking the room to keep from harming him. But the pressure builds in my chest until I almost can't take it. Smashing a lamp against the wall is the only way to vent without lashing out at him. Glass shatters and flies everywhere, but I feel better.

"You lied to them about your daughter and about my son, and when they pushed you to collect their due, you pretended to be the one who had the leverage." I shake my head yet again at his stupidity. "Youbolnoy ublyudok."

He tries to stand, but his legs wobble and he clings to the chair for support. "I want to see her. Let me talk to her. To the boy."

I grab the front of his coat and drive him backward into the wall. His spine connects with a sickening thud, and the portrait behind him tilts off its hook. He gasps, his breath catching as he struggles to remain upright.

"You come here again in that condition, mouthing off, and you’ll vanish. Do you understand?" I press my arm to his throat and he freezes, wide-eyed.

"I said, do you understand?"

He chokes until his face begins to redden, eyes bulging, then his breath rasps as he forces a nod. The fight drains from his body.

I let go of him. His knees buckle, and he collapses to the rug in a heap, limbs heavy and useless. For a moment, he doesn't move at all.

I straighten my suit and stomp to the door calling, "Stepan, get him out. Drive him to the city. He’s not to return."

Stepan arrives with two guards in tow, both men already moving to take hold of Pyotr before I need to say another word. They each grab an arm and begin dragging him across the floor. His shoes scrape against the carpet, and his voice slips into slurred nonsense, fragments of names and curses that fall apart in his mouth.

I turn without speaking and head for the west wing with long and steady strides. The echo of my footsteps rolls down the corridor, steady as a drumbeat. And considering how upsetting that moment just was, I feel good, better than I have in days.

I pass the stairwell where the banister curves in polished mahogany, the silent piano room beyond the threshold, and the servants’ corridor that branches off into the kitchen. The deeperI go, the narrower the hall becomes, lined with gilt frames and old photographs.

Then I see Anya standing in the hall just outside her bedroom, her hand braced on the doorframe as if she heard every word. Her eyes are fixed on me, searching for truth in my face. The silk robe she wears clings to her form, cinched tight at the waist, and her bare feet press into the cold floor. She doesn’t move, but everything in her posture says she’s waiting for something.

"Was that my father?" she asks. Her voice cuts through the stillness.

I stop and I meet her eyes. "He forced his way in. He was drunk. He accused me of keeping you here."

She crosses her arms. "What did you do to him?" I sense the worry in her tone and understand it. She cares for him even though he is detestable in my sight.

"I made sure he understood the danger he'd caused." My words seem to cause her grief.

She looks down. Her fingers tighten.

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