Page 129 of Toxic Temptation
I stub out my cigar. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s not a weakness if you did.”
“It’s not an issue either way, because I don’t have feelings for her.” I hesitate, then add, “But if I did, it would absolutely be a weakness. Look what happened to Vitalii.”
Pavel’s shaking his head before I even finish my sentence. “You can’t compare yourself to Vitalii. And you sure as hell can’t compare Vesper to Yana.”
I draw on the cigar again, letting the smoke burn away all my wild doubts, all the lingeringwhat ifsthat drive me crazier and crazier with every passing day. “It doesn’t matter. She’s a target now. She’ll always be a target because she’s connected to me. What happened today proves that.”
“A stupid prank by her boss?—”
“It wasn’t Jeremy.”
Pavel stops. “What do you mean?”
“I know who did it,” I rumble. “And he’s going to answer for it.” I ash out the cigar. “Tonight.”
44
KOVAN
The smoke hits me the second I walk intoGossip. Weed and cigarettes and desperation all rolled into one toxic cloud that clings to everything—the walls, the furniture, the broken dreams of every asshole who thinks this place is their kingdom.
I find Ihor exactly where I knew I would. The back table. The one that should belong to me.
He’s sprawled across the booth, arms stretched wide, a joint dangling from his fingers. The sight makes my blood simmer.
This used to be my father’s table. When Vitalii took over, I asked him once why he never came here.
“It will always betheirs,” he’d said, nodding toward the framed photo behind the bar—young Ihor and our father, both of them grinning like they ruled the world. “No matter what title I carry,” Vitalii explained, “to them, I’ll always be the son who inherited power instead of earning it.”
Even after Vitalii died, I let his words guide me. I stayed away. Let Ihor play king in his little corner of our empire.
What a fucking mistake that has turned out to be.
Two gorillas in cheap suits flank him, their necks as thick as tree trunks. I don’t break stride. “Move.”
They don’t.
“You seem confused about who signs your paychecks.” I pull out my knife—Swiss steel, engraved with the Krayev crest. “Let me clear that up for you.”
My blade sinks into the first man’s hand before he can blink. His scream cuts through the bar like a fire alarm, and suddenly, everyone’s paying attention.
Perfect.
I twist the knife. Just a little. “When yourpakhantells you to move, you fucking move.”
The second of Ihor’s guards scrambles away so fast he knocks over a chair. The first one follows, clutching his bleeding hand and whimpering like a kicked dog.
“Remember this moment when you look at the scar,” I call after him. “Consider it a learning experience.”
The bar has gone dead silent. Even the shitty music stopped. Every eye in the place is on me, and I can feel the shift in the room. The reminder of who really runs this show.
Ihor, however, doesn’t even flinch. “Feeling dramatic tonight?” he mocks as I approach.
“Feeling territorial.” I slide into the booth across from him, wiping blood off my blade with a cocktail napkin. “Pity that it’s so hard to find good help these days.”
“What do you want, Kovan?”
