Page 18 of Dance of Defiance
“You look like shit.”
I think I was nine when I gave up hoping my father would speak to me like I imagined at the time that fathers spoke to their children. He was never going to ask me how my day was, or if he could help me with anything, or if there was anything I wanted to talk about.
At all.
Evie gets abitof his softer side, being the princess of the family and all. But even she doesn't usually hold her breath waiting for a hug or a smile.
It’s just not in our father’s DNA—never has been, never will. But I suppose it’s that coldness and gruffness that’s got him to the head of one of the most powerful Bratva families on Earth, even commanding a seat at the Iron Table.
You don’t get there asking people how their day was, or if they want to talk about their fee-fees.
“Sorry, Papa,” I say as I meet him halfway across the floor of his study. He gives me a stiff, brief hug—not to show affection, but because this is how a man like him issupposed togreet his son and heir.
When we pull apart, his brow furrows and his nose wrinkles.
“You smell like a bar.”
“Apologies, Papa,” I mutter as we take seats across from each other on the two couches facing each other in the middle of the study. “I…had some business to discuss with the owners of a club.”
Behind him, Stepan rolls his eyes, but my father just nods. “Good.Good. My son, out there on the streets, getting things done and building his future.” He leers at me. “And having a little fun, too, eh?”
I smile. “I do my best.”
He chuckles. “I hear you were spotted at Laz Kislev’s club last night with a pretty little thing on your lap.” His mouth curls into a lascivious grin. “I assume that’s what kept you from filling me in on what you discovered at Vaughn Bancroft’s estate?”
My right eye twitches as I force a smile to my face.
“Guilty as charged.”
He laughs deeply. “Just like his Papa, hey, Stepan?” My father glances at his number two, chuckling. “Get us some drinks,da? For you as well. Let’s talk business.”
Stepan pours three vodkas at the bar across the room before joining us at the couches and sitting next to my father.
“Za zdorovye,” the three of us grunt as we clink our glasses together.
“Stepan already showed me the pictures you took that you emailed him.” Papa nods at me as he takes a sip. “I want to knowwhat else you saw and heard there. I want the full breakdown of your night. Leave no details out.”
I knock back the contents of my glass in one gulp.
He’s not getting the full breakdown. And there will beseveraldetails left out.
“Our intel was right,” I growl. “Vaughn and the Syndicate are trying to cozy up to Cosimo.”
“Ublyudok!” Papa swears under his breath. “I knew that sneaky motherfucker would try to undermine our plans.”
For the record, they’rehisplans, not mine—i.e., my impending arranged marriage to Dasha Lukashova.
Laz’s crude jokes aside, Dasha’s averypretty girl. She’s also intelligent, driven, and is clearly as unenthusiastic about this disastrous arrangement as I am. But my father’s push for me to marry her isn’t about either of our enthusiasm levels.
It’s about the Lukashov Bratva being close with the Sangrini family—so close, in fact, that Cosimo Sangrini is Dasha’s godfather.
Thatis what my father is ultimately after: access to the underworld banker king himself.
The Sangrini family hasn’t remained an underworld institution and basically kingmakers since the fucking Crusades by playing petty favoritism games. Their whole thing is remaining utterly neutral.
But no man, not even Cosimo Sangrini, is above all influence. And his weak spot is Dasha.
Cosimo has no children of his own, which means his goddaughter has become a bit of a favorite of his. Thus, he who controls the princess, controls the purse strings, so to speak.
