Page 9 of The Arrangement

"Igor is in his office," she informs me, her tone light yet carrying the undercurrent of the family dynamics that dictate our interactions.

"Thank you, Tiffany," I reply, my voice even.

The path to my father's office is as familiar as it is foreboding. Igor Morozov, patriarch, businessman, and sometimes adversary, waits with Aleksey by his side. The air in the room is charged, a mix of anticipation and underlying tension that's become a hallmark of our gatherings.

Aleksey, leaning against the polished mahogany desk, doesn't notice my entrance. His physical presence—taller than average, with a build that speaks to years of disciplined physical training, his dark hair slicked back in a manner that attempts to imitate our father's authoritative style—contrasts sharply with the petulance that often marks his countenance and demeanor. He's speaking animatedly, unaware of my observation.

"...and this pet daycare owner, she's yet to settle Ned's debt. Quite the peach, too," Aleksey remarks with a leer, unaware of the line he's treading. His voice carries a mix of amusement and disdain, a combination I've grown accustomed to navigating. “Gorgeous, in fact. Makes me wonder what she looks like underneath that dog-hair-covered apron she wears.”

He laughs loudly at his own joke as Father rolls his eyes.

I remain silent, my entrance stealthy as a shadow, allowing him to continue unchecked. His comment about Tory irks me—unprofessional, unnecessary. Yet, I choose not to react. In this game, every emotion displayed is a weakness exploited.

Only when he pauses, perhaps sensing the shift in the room's atmosphere, do I make my presence fully known. "Father, Aleksey," I greet, my tone neutral, revealing nothing of my thoughts.

My brother turns, momentarily surprised, then quickly masks it with a broad grin, coming over and clapping me on the back as if we're allies rather than rivals held together by blood. "Maksim! Just the man I wanted to see," he declares, reaching for the scotch on the desk. "Drink?"

I nod, accepting the gesture for what it is—a play at camaraderie, as transparent as it is necessary.

"Thank you," I reply, taking the glass he offers.

Our father sits behind an imposing desk that's as much a barricade as it is a piece of furniture. His age is belied by the depth in his dark eyes, the same eyes I've inherited. Age has only slightly stooped his broad shoulders, and his hair, though silver, remains thick and meticulously groomed. He's a man whose commanded fear and respect in equal measure, and even now, in his later years, his presence demands attention.

"Maksim," he starts, his voice carrying the weight of decades of unchallenged power. "Have you handled the matter with the woman? The debt owed by that fool?"

I stand before him, my posture relaxed but alert. "Yes, Father. It's being addressed," I respond, my tone even, betraying none of the complexity of emotions Tory's situation has stirred within me.

"And?" he probes further, his gaze sharp. "Has she complied? Or do we need to encourage her cooperation?"

"The situation is under control," I assure him, aware of the unspoken implications of his 'encouragement.' "There's no need for further action at this point."

My father sits back, studying me with a scrutiny that's dissected and guided my actions since childhood. "Make sure it is, Maksim. We cannot allow debts to go unpaid. It sets a precedent."

"Understood," I reply.

The conversation shifts to other matters—territories, shipments, alliances—but my focus wavers. My thoughts drift to Tory, her defiance, her strength. And a realization that's as unexpected as it is unsettling: I'm considering forgiving her debt.

Not just forgiving it but erasing it entirely, an action that defies the very principles I've been raised on. And beyond that, the burgeoning desire to ask her out, to explore the connection that, despite all logic, seems to draw me to her.

The meeting with my father concludes with the usual assurances and directives, but as I take my leave, the weight of my thoughts anchors me. The decision I'm contemplating marks a potential shift in my world's axis.

Chapter 5

Tory

The shop is quiet, the kind of silence you need after a day of chaos and barking dogs.

I'm alone, cleaning up, the rhythmic swish of my broom practically meditative. The door chimes unexpectedly, slicing through the stillness like a knife. My heart skips a beat as I look up and find Maksim standing there, imposing and just as infuriatingly sexy as he was the other night.

He’s dressed slightly more casually than the full suit I’ve seen him in, instead opting for gray slacks and a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his sexy-as-hell forearms. He marches into my shop like he owns the place.

Hell, in a few days, he just might.

"Your debt," he begins, his voice low, "can be wiped away. All I ask is for you to give me what I want." His eyes lock onto mine, searching, as if he's trying to gauge my reaction.

A laugh, short and absent of humor, escapes me. "What if there's been a change to the deal?" I challenge. My heart’s thudding in my chest.

He raises an eyebrow in surprise. “What sort of change?”

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