Page 250 of The Devil's Thorn
Yuri moved to stand slightly behind and to my left—close enough to step in, far enough to stay out of sightlines. A shadow that smiled when necessary and killed when it wasn’t.
“You think he brought a bottle?” Yuri muttered.
“No,” I said. “He brought a daughter. That’s more expensive.”
Yuri let out a low laugh. “Fair point.”
I settled back into the chair as the footsteps echoed down the hallway outside—measured, heavy, deliberate. Cormac always walked like the floor owed him something.
I didn’t stand when the door opened. Power didn’t rise to meet anyone. It waited.
Nikolai stepped back in first, holding the door open. And then he came in.
Sixty-three. Barrel-chested. Steel-gray hair. A face weathered by decades of blood and business. He wore his arrogance like a tailored coat—expensive, familiar, outdated in all the ways that still worked.
His eyes scanned the room first. Then landed on me. “Rafael,” he said, voice gravel and smoke.
I didn’t blink.
“Cormac.”
He walked in like it was his house, but I saw it—the brief flicker of unease when he realized I hadn’t stood.
He reached for a chair opposite mine and pulled it out without asking. Sat down with the kind of slow weight that said he was here to talk, not threaten.
Yuri didn’t move. Just stood there, arms crossed, watching.
“Appreciate you seeing me,” Cormac said, resting his forearms on his knees. “Not everyone would take a second look at a gift they already turned down.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t aware I’d accepted the first offer.”
“Didn’t say you did,” he said easily. “But you didn’t slam the door either.”
“No,” I said. “I left it cracked. Sometimes it’s useful to know who’s still knocking.”
He gave a slow nod.
“You’ve built something solid here, Rafael. Ruthless. Efficient. The kind of empire that doesn’t die with its maker—if the maker’s smart.”
I let the silence stretch. Watched him. Waited.
“I’m not here to preach,” he continued. “I’m here to offer a future. You’ve got enemies. We all do. But you don’t have someone waiting in the wings. Not really. And that makes people bold.”
“And you think your daughter would fix that?”
“I think she’dhelp.”
I tilted my head, not smiling. “Helpme, or helpyou?”
His eyes didn’t flicker. “Both.”
At least he was honest.
“She knows the world,” he went on. “Knows when to speak and when not to. I raised her right. She’s not some simpering little porcelain bride. She can carry weight.”
“So can a briefcase full of cash.”
“Cash doesn’t carry blood,” he said. “Or legitimacy.”
