Page 81 of Emerald

It’s only about a twenty-minute drive to Krestovsky.

How strange that we’ve been living so close to each other all this time.

I don’t know Remizov at all. We have no relationship, no history, for good or for ill. Yet I hate him more than anyone I’ve known, for the callous way he murdered Karol, and for his audacity in thinking he can take what belongs to me and the other Bratva of St. Petersburg. What our families have built over two hundred years, he thinks he can claw away from us in the space of a few months.

He thinks we’ll make deals with him. Agree to serve under him.

Maybe some of the Bratva have done it, but I never will.

I’d rather be dead than on my knees.

Would you rather see Sloane dead, though?

That’s a more difficult question.

That’s the problem with caring about someone. No logic, no ideals can withstand the imperative of keeping that person safe.

I’ve only known Sloane a short time, but I do know her. I know exactly who she is, what she’s capable of. And I want her to be mine.

I have a vision of the two of us at the head of the Petrov family. Equals and partners. Building an empire that makes Remizov’s ambitions look like nothing more than a fever dream.

I can see it so clearly, what Sloane and I could achieve together. So clearly that even though I know I’m supposed to be walking into certain death, I can’t believe that what I’m imagining won’t come to pass.

After all these years of living in a monastery, I’ve finally found faith in something.

This girl who tried to kill me, and instead, brought me new life.

I’m almost happy as I pull through the gates to Remizov’s house.

Because I’m about to see Sloane again.

I’d rather die next to her than live without her.

I park my car and walk toward the front steps.

In my peripheral view, I see half a dozen guards patrolling the grounds, with several more stationed around the front door. I’m sure Remizov has all hands on deck tonight, in case I disobeyed his order and brought all my men with me.

I hold up my empty hands as I approach the door.

Still, two of his guards search me so thoroughly that I couldn’t have smuggled a pencil inside the house.

When they’re satisfied that I came unarmed, they lead me inside.

Remizov’s house is large and modern, relentlessly masculine in its colors and aesthetic. The rooms are spotlessly clean, smelling of cleaning products and little else.

It seems like he lives here alone, other than his men on their rotating shifts. I wonder if he gets any pleasure out of the vast, opulent rooms, the art on the walls, the cars in his garage, or if he’s simply driven by instinct to collect and expand, like a dragon with its hoard.

I could ask him.

His guards lead me to a set of double doors. There’s another pair of goons guarding the doors. I immediately dislike the look of the one on the right. He’s built like a tank, with short cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. He has a broad jaw, a cleft chin—and a conceited smirk that I want to wipe off his face with my fist.

He makes an exaggerated show of opening the door for me, but then stands in such a way that we knock shoulders as I walk through the opening.

I want to wheel around and throttle him. But I can’t spare a second on him or anyone else. I need to see Sloane.

I don’t have to wait long.

She’s sitting in the dining room across from Remizov himself. As soon as I enter, she leaps to her feet.

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