Page 108 of Oathbreaker

“I have,” Leo says coolly.

“And you, Hunter?” If Misha feels the animosity radiating from Leo, he doesn’t show it.

“Can’t say that I have,” I reply.

Misha claps his hands once. “You’re in for a treat.” He gets up without warning and heads out of the dining room. Leo and I finally share a glance, and it’s loaded.

Me: We’re fucked.

Him: I fucking know.

Me: But what can we do?

Him: Not a fucking thing.

Making our way down the dark corridor, we follow Misha into the opulent cigar room. It’s climate-controlled and leather-bound—not that I’d expect it to look any different.

“Sit, sit,” Misha says. “Whiskey, bourbon, or cognac?” he asks hospitably.

“Whiskey for me,” I say.

“Cognac,” Leo says.

Misha nods and pours the alcohol. Bringing over the drinks, he opens the humidor on the low table separating us.

“Mayan Sicars. Did you know that they began making cigars in the twelfth century? These cigars,” he picks one up, examining it in the low, warm light. “They’re over six hundred years old. Some people see them as an investment piece.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then he quickly snips the end of the cigar, handing one to Leo and another to me.

“This one, though.” He pulls out a gold-leaf wrapped cigar with… What the fuck, are those diamonds? “The Gurkha Royal Courtesan. Himalayan tobacco, Fiji water, and Remy Martin’s Black Louis XII cognac. Wrapped in gold leaf with five-carat diamonds. How much do you think this one costs, Leo?”

I raise my eyebrow. I don’t know why he’s so focused on Leo, but it’s making the hair on my neck rise even more.

“It’s roughly worth a million and a quarter,” Leo says in a bored tone.

Misha nods his head toward him. “Very good. You do know your cigars.” With no further preamble, he snips the end of the deluxe tobacco and lights it.

Lights a million-dollar cigar.

I see shit like this all the time, but this feels like a particularly disgusting display of power, waste, and greed.

I look away as the cigar smoke whirls around us. I light mine, leaning back in the leather seat, sipping the whiskey.

I can’t lie. It’s delicious.

Looking around, I see what Misha’s doing. He knows we’ve seen him in a vulnerable state, and vulnerability is a risk.

So he wants to show who’s in charge. And it isn’t us.

“I don’t need what your father has,” Misha says. He isn’t looking at me. Instead, he’s looking at the cigar, analyzing the smoke curling from the end of it. “Honestly, I don’t need to intervene in this issue.”

The issue of my father trying to kill me and the people I love.

“And while his business is,” he tilts his head from side to side, searching for a word, “problematic, to say the least, I have more than enough here.” He puffs on the million-dollar cigar. “So why should I help you again?”

My eyes narrow on Misha, and I can sense Leo’s jaw grinding out of my peripheral vision.

“We did everything you asked us to do. Your wife would not be alive if it weren’t for us,” Leo says with barely concealed agitation.

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