Page 101 of Corrupted Heart

She wants to use me. She wants me to spill secrets from my own family. And, apparently, now that it’s clear that it’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever do that, she’s moved on to the Italians.

I’ve been ignoring her since she crashed the engagement party. So I know what her calling Ares is. This is a warning shot across the bow.

“Thanks,” I grunt. “I’ll call her back.”

“Who is she?”

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Ares eyes me. “Don’t worry about it because I’ve been handling less of that stuff?”

It’s true. With Ares running our family and Thermopylae, Hades, Deimos, and I have all taken on a lot more of our…less than legal business ventures, to keep Ares’ hands clean.

“Or don’t worry about it because something’s fucked and you’re trying to keep cool.”

“Yes.”

He scowls. “Which one, Kratos.”

I glance at my watch. “I need to run, actually.”

He gives me a look that says he’s not even a little ready to drop this. But just as he opens his mouth, the door to his office swings open and Hades comes charging through, a black expression on his face.

“Fuck,” Ares growls, rising. “What is it?”

Hades’ mouth twists. “Hope neither of you had any bets going on when Davit was going to be back on his feet. That ‘temporary liver thing’ just killed him.”

Shit.

“Fuck,” Ares swears. “FUCK!” He glances at me, then back to Hades. “Has Te Mallkuarit given any indication about?—”

“Arian Kirakosian was officially made head of the organization about an hour ago.”

Goddammit.

That’s not good.

The phone on Ares’ desk rings. When he answers, his face darkens as his secretary, Leigh, chirps something on the other end.

“I understand. Call him back, tell him we’ll be right over.”

He hangs up with a grim expression as he glances first at me, then Hades.

“Drazen Krylov would like to speak to us. Now.”

Hades whistles low when we step off the elevator into the entryway of Drazen’s penthouse.

“God damn,” he mutters, looking impressed as his eyes scan the pinnacle of opulent luxury surrounding us.

Not gonna lie, Ares and I have the same “holy shit” look on our faces as we gaze up at the enormous, vaulted ceilings and staggeringly huge walls of windows past the foyer that look out over Central Park.

Drazen doesn’t live that far from the Drakos estate, actually. He’s recently moved into the top of New York’s newest ultra highrise on “billionaire’s row”, which looks out over all of Manhattan from near cloud level. As you might guess, there’s a reason they call this billionaire’s row: you’ve gotta have three damn commas in your net worth to even consider buying a unit here.

Drazen owns three, which he’s had gutted and merged into what is almost certainly one of the top five most expensive residences in the city at this point.

When I say the Serbian-Russian motherfucker exploded onto the New York scene a year or so ago, I mean it.

“My friends,” Drazen rumbles in his gruff but polished accented baritone. He appears from around the corner, clad in one of his usual custom dark gray suits that fits him perfectly. Yet, he always wears them with an element of disdain. It’s like he knows it’s part of the trappings he has to wear, but he hates the fact that in this world, he needs a well-cut suit to be taken seriously, rather than an AK-47.

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