Page 81 of I'm sorry, Princess
My jaw tightens, but I let it go. For now.
The door opens, and Kirill strides into the room, Ice following closely behind.
Good.
No trace of that little devil he always seems to have in tow.
Thank God.
The last thing I need right now is to deal with her attitude on top of everything else.
Kirill gives me a curt nod, his expression as unreadable as ever. Ice’s face is its usual mask of indifference, but his sharp eyes take in everything as he moves to his seat.
There’s a heavy tension in the air, but that’s not new.
“Thank you for coming,” Kirill says, his voice cold as he sets a leather bag on the table. He pulls out a stack of files and begins distributing them, one to each of us.
I glance down at the picture in front of me, an older man, mid-60s, with a face that screams power and entitlement. Andres and Lev receive photos of two younger men, likely in their late 20s, both bearing an arrogant smirk that’s begging to be wiped off their faces.
“This man,” Kirill begins, pointing to the old bastard in my picture, “is Senator Patrick Donaldson. And these two shits,” he motions to the photos Andres and Lev hold, “are his sons.”
I feel my lip curl at the mention of the senator’s name. Politicians like him always think they’re untouchable.
“Lorenzo,” Kirill says, fixing me with a cold, deliberate stare, “I want you in charge of this.”
By ‘in charge,’ he means torture.
Fine by me. It’s been a shitty week, and I could use the distraction.
“Andres,” Kirill continues, turning to him, “I need a well-trained security team to follow my daughter.”
In Kirill’s world, “well-trained” translates to lethal. He doesn’t want bodyguards; he wants killing machines. Men who won’t hesitate to rip apart anything, or anyone, that gets within breathing distance of his daughter.
Lev looks up from his photo, his usual smirk gone, replaced by a rare expression of fury. His eyes meet Kirill’s.
“What the fuck happened?” Lev asks, his voice low but charged.
Kirill leans back slightly, his hand moving to the back of his head as he massages the tension building there. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his eyes darkening as the weight of his next words sinks into the room.
“My youngest daughter, Anastasia, was attacked last night.”
The air shifts instantly, the weight of his statement settling over us like a storm cloud.
“The matter has been taken care of,” he continues, his tone measured, “but the men involved mentioned Donaldson’s name.”
Donaldson. That old bastard’s name is starting to piss me off.
Kirill’s hand drops from the back of his head, his eyes locking onto Lev.
“I want to know why he would send someone after my daughter. And I want his two sons delivered to me.”
Lev’s jaw tightens, his fury barely contained, but he nods, accepting the task without hesitation.
“I’ll need the basement at Cursed to hold them after you collect them,” Kirill adds. “I’ve already purchased another building to handle our business enemies, but it’s still being set up by my team.”
I can’t help but feel the anger simmering beneath my own skin. What kind of sick bastard goes after a 16-year-old girl?
“Any questions?” Kirill asks, his voice steady, but the exhaustion is etched into his face. The shadows under his eyes tell me he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks, maybe longer.
