Page 67 of I'm sorry, Princess
I nod at him, keeping my face neutral. By passionate, do you mean she’s a little psychopath in a doll’s body? Then yeah, she’s very passionate.
She turns to Kirill, her frustration spilling out as she waves a hand toward the table. “So, what am I supposed to do here, Papa? Sit around with five guys and drink vodka?”
Her tone is dripping with disdain, and I can’t help but smirk to myself.
“I’ll take you home,” Ice says from his seat, his voice calm and even, as always.
He stands, adjusting his jacket like he’s about to head straight into battle. “I need to take care of some business anyway. Happy birthday, man,” he adds, nodding at me.
Kirill nods in approval, a subtle but significant gesture. The Three are called that for a reason. If Kirill trusts Ice with his daughter’s life, it’s because they’re invincible when they stand together.
“Thanks, man. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I reply, then glance at the girl. She still hasn’t introduced herself, and I can’t let it go unnoticed. “Bye? Your name?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as I look at her.
“Oh, yeah,” Kirill says with a small laugh, like he’s just remembered she’s here. “I forgot to introduce her. This is Alisa Evangeline Volkov, my eldest daughter.”
He says it with pride, like he’s presenting his greatest achievement. And honestly? With a little monster like her, I can see why. She’s the type to have a gun tucked somewhere in her outfit, ready to murder us all if the mood strikes.
It’s almost impressive.
“My pleasure, Alisa,” I say smoothly, taking her hand and kissing it like the gentleman I am, or at least, the one I pretend to be when it suits me.
Her response is dry as dust. “Okay.”
She pulls her hand back like it’s a chore to even acknowledge me.
She’s wild. Fierce. She’s definitely following in her father’s footsteps, and it’s obvious that’s exactly what he wants. He’s grooming her now, training her to be just like him.
Nice.
“Okay, ladies, if you’re done talking about make-up, can we fucking start the party?” Lev cuts in, his voice slurred as he leans back in his chair. He’s drunk, wasted, and now high after his first line of coke. Classic Lev.
I reach for the vodka, pouring myself a glass, not a polite pour, but a half-whiskey-glass worth of the good stuff. Because why not? If the Russians are grooming us for anything, it’s a lifetime of appreciating strong vodka.
I take my first sip. By sip, I mean I down half the glass.
The burn is immediate, scorching my throat on the way down, but it’s a good burn. One that wakes you up, sharpens you. Without hesitation, I take a second sip, finishing what’s left in the glass.
The suite doors swing wide open now, and the music kicks in, loud and pulsing. The mood shifts instantly, thebusiness air replaced by something more primal, more chaotic.
Kirill steps up, matching my drink with his own. We clink glasses, and he pats my shoulder again before pulling me into a brief hug.
“Happy birthday, son,” he says quietly before retreating.
I watch as he slips away, heading for the exit. Can’t blame the man, he’s 48 years old, and if I had a wife waiting for me, I’d probably choose her over this circus, too. But I don’t have a wife.
I down another glass of vodka, setting it back on the table with a clink.
And then, without hesitation, I lean forward and take my first line of coke.
“Nightcrawler” by Travis Scott booms through the suite, the bass rattling the walls as the energy shifts into overdrive. The doors open, and twenty women flood into the room, their laughter and heels clicking on the marble floor adding to the chaos.
Lev, already high as a kite, throws his arms wide like he’s the king of the world. He sings along to the track, his voice slurred but enthusiastic. “Come here, ladies, let me take care of you!”
He’s definitely living his best life, dancing with a redhead and a brunette, one in each arm. His hands are busy, shamelessly massaging their boobs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come here, birthday boy!” he shouts, grinning at me like he’s already decided my night. “You’re getting laid tonight!”
Across the room, Andres is just as far gone. He’s sprawled on the couch, a brown-haired girl perched on hislap. She’s pouring vodka onto her bare chest, letting it drip down her skin as he leans in to drink it straight from her.
