Page 61 of Shattered Empire (Shattered World)

I sneered.

“Know me so well, do you?”

Ivan grinned broadly, showcasing pearly white teeth and a more youthful face. The graying edges of his hair were gone, and he was clean shaven, making him look years younger than the man he portrayed. Hell, even his eye color was different. Gone were the hazel contacts, replaced by the familiar silver glint.

There were very little traces of Jonathan Archer left. He’d hidden behind his façade so well that I barely recognized the man standing in front of me.

“I know more about you than you think.” He lowered his gun as a show of good faith, tucking it into his waistband.

“Well,” I tipped the muzzle of my gun back and forth, “not surprising with your stalker tendencies.” The man looked like he wanted to smile, but he kept his face somewhat neutral.

“You should tell your man downstairs to come on up for a drink,” Ivan informed me. He gave my gun a quick glance before walking to the bar that sat to one side of me. Dima cursed over the comms line. I winced at the volume. “He’s good.” Ivan smirked. “My men are just better.”

“Indeed,” I grumbled and put my gun away as I barked at Dima to stand by in the lobby. “How long have you known?”

Ivan chuckled darkly. “Since the minute you stepped off the plane.”

I swore.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right now, then.”

That fucking smirk. I wanted to wipe it off his face.

“I want Kirill dead.”

That wasn’t what I was expecting.

“He’s your uncle. Why would you want that?”

Ivan turned toward me, jaw clenched, the muscles in his throat tightening around his pulsing carotid. The man was angry, eyes burning with uncontrolled hatred.

“Antony Tkachenko was my brother.”

I shook my head slightly, gun lowering. Brother. That was impossible. He calledmebrother before he died. Antony had been a Kasyanov.

Right?

“Impossible,” I murmured and took the glass of scotch he offered.

Ivan scoffed. “I think I would know my own brother.”

I thought back to that fateful night. The one where we fought, and I killed him.

“I’m sorry,brat.”

Those were the words he said to me.

Unless they weren’t meant for me. Maybe they had been meant for Ivan?

“How much do you know about Kirill?” he asked me. Ivan sat across from me in one of the other chairs, making himself comfortable as he sipped on his vodka.

“Seeing as how he is my father,” I sneered at the term, “a lot.”

And out came the smirk again.

“Is he though?”

Thismudakwas playing with fire.

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