Page 34 of Crown of Hate

“Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start thinking you want me, not my sister.”

Ilya’s jaw clenches at my comment, a telltale twitch betraying his struggle not to smile. Since we entered my mansion’s bar, he’s been burning holes through me with his stare, as if I’ve suddenly sprouted devil horns.

He hasn’t uttered a word yet, but I can read the reason behind his serious demeanor—it’s about Alya, no doubt.

I grab two shot glasses and a bottle of scotch, then return to the oakwood bar. Dropping onto a stool next to him, I fill our glasses with a generous pour. Ilya’s gaze remains fixed on me as he downs his drink, wincing at the burn.

He slams the glass down with enough force to rattle the bar top, and I refill it without hesitation. It’s a routine as familiar as breathing by now.

“Don’t take it personally that you weren’t at my wedding. It was an emergency—no time for fancy invitations.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow. “No time, or you knew I’d throw a wrench in your plans?”

“Both,” I admit, gulping down half my drink in one go. “Besides, I didn’t think I needed your blessing to get married.”

“I am your Pakhan.”

I raise a finger. “You’re Pakhan of the Bratva here in Chicago.” Andrei retired a year ago to be with his family, leaving Ilya in charge. But that doesn’t mean he controls me.

“You work for me, Mikhail. I don’t give two shits about what you’re trying to achieve in Russia. Until you do so, I am your Pakhan.”

“And that means I should roll over and play lapdog to your every whim?” I’ve never been one to follow orders. I do what I want, when I want it. Ilya knows that better than anyone. It’s why I can’t ever bow to that bastard Boris. He’s nothing but a puppet. A puppet I foolishly placed on my throne, who stabbed me in the back and is now after my head.

My fist clenches. I can’t wait to gut that bastard.

“No, it doesn’t. You’re my friend and brother-in-law before anything else.” He rakes his fingers through his hair as if grasping for the right words. “I’m worried about you, Mikhail. You’re playing with fire.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. The girl is harmless.” But even as I say it, I know it’s not entirely true. Alya’s become a constant thought at the back of my head, her smile and scent addictive in ways that are far from harmless. It’s a problem I need to address soon before it consumes me entirely.

“She’s Ivan Orlov’s daughter,” Ilya hisses. His jaw clenches and there’s nothing but rage in his eyes. “Her father was a monster. She could be worse.”

His concerns aren’t baseless. In fact, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered the same when I first met Alya. But now? After getting close to her? She’s nothing like the beast who raised her. She’s like a cute little kitten; even her bites are nothing but sweet and charming.

Love bites, they call it.

“She’s nothing like him, Ilya.” The defensiveness in my voice surprises even me. “Alya wouldn’t even hurt a fly, let alone match her father’s crimes. She’s… pure and kind.” I wouldn’t have let her within a mile of my heart otherwise. And yet, here she is, nestled so deep I’m not sure I could remove her if I tried.

He shakes his head in disbelief and drains his second glass. “You’re cunt-whipped.”

“Look who’s talking.” I still haven’t completely forgiven him for getting with my sister behind my back. But they love each other, and he was here for her when I couldn’t be. When I was too busy playing dead.

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back to stare aimlessly at the neon lights flickering overhead. The colorful glow paints his face in a kaleidoscope of hues, highlighting the worry lines on his forehead.

Ilya has always been the voice of reason, the one who sees through my carefully constructed façade and calls me out on my bullshit. But this time, it's different. This time, it's about Alya. And for once, I’m not sure I want to hear what he has to say.

He doesn’t trust me not to let the attraction I have for her blind me. But he should know I’m smarter than that. I’ve survived this long in our world by keeping my wits about me. I won’t let a woman—no matter how irresistible she is—be my downfall.

“Listen, Ilya, I’m not some clueless rookie. I know what I’m doing,” I begin, my voice tight with frustration. “She… She really is different. There’s something about her that sets her apart from her father. I can’t explain it, but it’s true. I swear. So just give her a chance before you write her off as Ivan’s carbon copy.”

He regards me skeptically, brow furrowed “And what if you're wrong, Mikhail? What if she's just playing you, waiting forthe perfect moment to strike? She thinks you killed her father, doesn’t she?”

She does, and I don’t give a damn that she does. Ivan deserved his fate. It was payback for the women and children he destroyed in his ruthless pursuit of power and wealth.

I’m no saint, but women and children are my red line. Men like Ivan, however, don’t create boundaries —they’ll cross whatever line there is to get what they want. “Her father was a monster. She would hate him if she knew all the atrocities he committed.”

But even as I speak the words, doubt gnaws at the edges of my mind. What if I really am blinded by my own desires? What if Alya really doesn’t care about my reasons for what happened?

Ilya's gaze softens, a flicker of understanding passing between us. He may not agree with my choices, but he respects them nonetheless. “Just promise me you'll be careful, Mikhail. I don't want to see you get hurt. And I don’t want any problems with the Bratva.”

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