Page 59 of Shattered Empire (Shattered World)

“You were right,” Dima admitted. “The moment he heard you were dead, he dropped all the extra security measures.”

I smirked. Kirill was anything if not predictable. It was no surprise that my death would lessen his hold on the strenuous security protocols he had in place. Satisfaction bloomed in my chest, knowing I’d caused all his fear. How many times had he jumped at the surrounding shadows, believing I hid behind them, ready to strike? Had his life been fraught with nightmares of his death, just as mine had been?

No matter.

Soon the bastard would be dead, and I would be free. Justice for my mother and brother would be served, and I could rush home to bury my cock in my wife’s tight cunt.

“What are we going to do about Archer?” Dima asked. “He’s here in the city. Could be coincidence, but I’m thinking we aren’t the only ones who know about Kirill’s dirty laundry.”

Jonathan Archer.

A.k.a. Ivan Tkachenko, my cousin.

Who I thought to be my brother before Mark had hit me with Kirill’s true parentage. I winced at the implication. It meant that Roman was not my cousin by blood. Kasyanov was the surname of the man I knew as my uncle. There were only a handful of times I had seen him before Kirill kicked me to the curb. It wasn’t until I began fighting in the underground that we reconnected.

It was a weary connection, full of distrust, and then later filled with disgust when Roman came begging for me to take him in. I was working as Tomas’s enforcer by then. My uncle hadn’t wanted an Italian-Russian hybrid for a son. Said his Italian side would make him too soft.

Now he was one of my most ruthless killers.

If his father wasn’t already dead, I would have brought him along to do the honors.

“We might be able to use him,” I surmised as I leaned back more comfortably in my seat, crossing an ankle over my knee. “If Kirill really is cheating Andrei out of money, he isn’t going to take it lightly. There’s a chance we could use Ivan’s connection to his father while exploiting mine.”

“You gonna tell him you’re related?”

I blew out an amused breath. “I’m pretty sure he already knows from his research. There was no way he would have missed it.”

“True, but looking back, nothing he’s done makes sense,” Dima contemplated as he too got comfortable. We’d be landing soon. “He took on the guise of a deceased FBI agent for years and never once went after you. Then he suddenly teams up with the Wards? For what?”

“He wanted to use Ava to get the video.” The statement wasn’t as confident as I wanted it to be. “Frame me for Elias’s murder.”

Dima shot me a skeptical look.

“Really?” he questioned. “Because from where I’m sitting, that makes no sense. Christian’s betrayal of his father was spontaneous. He didn’t plan it out. Not to mention, he had Mark involved long before he solicited Ava. Using her was just an excuse. He didn’t need to. Hewantedto. Nothing he had Ava do was necessary. Mark could have easily slipped him that information via a secure server without any of us being the wiser. Hechoseto use her. The question is—why?”

I reflected on what he said as Stephanie’s broken voice announced that we were descending into London. I stared out the window, a sneer painting my lips at the sight of the city below me. London was a cesspool of the worst crime families. Boys playing at men. They were reckless here, and most of the underground was run by dirty corporations instead of blue-blooded mafia families.

Despicable.

George landed the plane with the same finesse as always, the jolt barely detectable as we hit the runway and coasted toward the hangar. When he powered down the engines and Stephanie released the staircase, we were off like a shot in the Ferrari F12 Berlinetta I had procured several years ago when I was still traveling back and forth from this hellhole.

The Ferrari weaved through London traffic, handling like a wet dream. I thought about having it shipped to the states just so I could fuck Ava in it. The machine had power, and I had customized the interior from Ferrari’s standard nude leather to black, adding in hand-stitched red thread to compliment the exterior.

This Ferrari wasn’t just built for speed, it was made to be street legal until the city limits faded away and you could let loose. I bought it for the aerodynamic design. The engineers structured the car so well that air seemed to slip right down the flanks of the car, making for smoother turns and transitions.

The yellow-coated attendants outside the car whistled as we pulled up to the valet of the Savoy hotel. A place, I’m told, where Guccio Gucci once worked as a baggage porter. I tossed my keys to the one attendant who hadn’t been vying to get to my car and handed him a two-hundred-dollar tip.

“Not a scratch,” I threatened. “Or I break fingers.”

The boy audibly gulped, his carotid pulsing as he nodded emphatically. I patted his cheek and then made my way through the hotel doors with my bag in hand.

“Welcome.” The woman at the front desk smiled broadly at us, her eyes shining as she took in our expensive suits and polished demeanor. “Can I get your name for the reservation?”

“Pavel Kasyanov.” I gave her my dead uncle’s name. Using my own meant showing my hand, and I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

“Oh, yes.” The woman’s smile brightened even further. “You’re in our River View Suite. Here are your cards.” She handed me the small envelope containing our room keys. “I can show you to your room if you like.”

Jesus.

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