Page 10 of Dark Promise

“You’re late,” he snaps, his lips twisting in a sneer as he glares at me. He picks up the vintage Montblanc pen atop the desk and twirls it across his fingers before setting it down once more, his gaze never leaving my face.

“Traffic,” I lie, enjoying the way his jaw tightens. We both know I took my time arriving because I enjoy watching him simmer.

My father is the embodiment of authority and menace, his presence alone capable of commanding a room. He stands just shy of six feet, his frame lean but powerful, like a wolf that has learned to thrive on survival and instinct. His eyes are a stormy gray, sharp and unrelenting, framed by heavy brows that seem permanently etched into a scowl. The lines on his face tell the story of a man who has lived hard, ruled harder, and trusts no one—not even his own blood. His angular jaw is clean-shaven, though a hint of shadow often lingers, giving him an edge of perpetual ruthlessness.

His dark hair, streaked liberally with silver, is combed back meticulously, every strand in place. It’s a calculated look—polished but not soft. His sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose give his face an aristocratic quality, one that’s betrayed by thecoldness in his expression. When he smiles, it never reaches his eyes; instead, it’s a weapon, used to disarm or intimidate.

Tonight, he wears a tailored charcoal-gray suit that hugs his frame like armor. The fabric is understated but expensive, woven with subtle patterns that shimmer faintly under the golden light of his office. His black silk shirt is buttoned at the throat, with no tie, giving him an air of controlled rebellion. The only adornment he allows is a sleek platinum watch on his wrist, the face inlaid with onyx, a gift from my long-dead mother.

Even seated behind his massive desk, my father exudes a sense of coiled tension, like a predator waiting to pounce. Every movement is deliberate, every glance calculated to assert dominance. His voice, when he speaks, is low and smooth, but there’s always an undercurrent of steel—a warning that the man behind the words is as ruthless as they come.

The lights embedded in the ceiling and walls touch his features with a golden glow, leaving the periphery in shadow. He is the king on the throne, the focus of the spotlight, and the design of the room is meant to accentuate that fact, to remind all those who dare venture here that he is the power and the authority.

Without invitation, I sink into one of the oversized black leather chairs across from the desk, letting my posture exude indifference.

His eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw twitches. He’d prefer me quaking and sweating.

It’s been a long time since I cowered before him. And I never will again.

“What have you done about the problem with the latest weapons shipment from Belarus?” he asks, his tone dripping ice and disdain.

He expects me to flounder. He expects me to flail. But I’ve already fixed the issue—quietly, efficiently, without bloodshed—before he even knew it existed.

“There is no problem,Otets.” I’ve never called him Dad or Papa. AlwaysOtets, the formal word for father. Respectful but devoid of warmth.

I meet his gaze head-on. “The DHS will raid an empty airstrip. I had the shipment moved.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, quickly masked by his usual scowl. He dismisses my success with a wave of his hand, but I see the tension in his shoulders.

His looks over my shoulder, then back to my face. I don’t turn. I already know the identity of the person who’s just joined us.

Maxim Volkov. My father’s shadow. His enforcer. The son he chooses.

Once, I’d thought Maxim was the brother I’d choose. But that was a long time ago.

Maxim is a study in controlled precision, every aspect of him meticulously curated to project strength and capability. He’s tall, just a hair under my own height, with a broad-shouldered build. His face is sharp and symmetrical, the kind of handsomeness that draws attention whether he wants it or not. High cheekbones, a straight, aristocratic nose, and a jawline so defined it could cut glass.

There’s a duality to him—an effortless charm that can disarm an enemy in one breath and a ruthless edge that can end them in the next. Maxim is the kind of man who thrives in shadows, a predator hiding behind a polished veneer. He’s sharp, cunning. A perfect soldier for my father’s empire.

“The package,” Maxim says, addressing my father. “I’ve hired outside men, as you instructed. The transaction was anonymous.Nothing can be linked back to you. They’re heading to New York tonight.”

The wordpackagesets my teeth on edge. My gut tells me I’m not going to like what’s coming next.

“She’s critical leverage,” my father says. “Make sure they’re careful. Russo’s sister is no use to us dead.”

Sabina.

My fucking father ordered fucking Maxim to nab Sabina. And Maxim sent two mindless thugs to do the job. If they hurt her, I will burn their world to ash.

I keep my expression blank, my posture relaxed. My father’s attention shifts to me for a second, searching for a reaction, but I give him nothing.

“Leo will move heaven and earth for her,” my father continues, his tone icy. “And we’ll use that to our advantage.”

“Leo’s weakness is predictable,” Maxim says, his gaze locked on mine. He’s enjoying this. Enjoying the fact that he thinks I will be upset that my father chose him instead of me to carry out this order. Is that why he made a point of coming in and discussing it while I’m here?

“You’d better hope your men are competent,” I say, my tone as cold as theirs. “Russo will come at us hard if this backfires.”

Maxim smirks. “Leo Russo doesn’t scare me.”

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