Page 64 of Dark Promise

“Wise words,” Nicole replies.

“You agree?”

“I do. I mean, for the most part.”

I wait.

Her gaze flicks to mine and her dark eyes have hardened. “Let’s just say, if anyone ever tries to hurt Leo, tries to hurt any of you, I will hunt them down and murder each and every one of them slowly, while they scream for a mercy that never comes.”

I stare at her for several long moments with the festive gathering a muffled background to our conversation.

“You are literally perfect for Leo,” I tell her with a laugh. “You just made the final puzzle piece snap into place for me when it comes to you two.”

The murderous look leaves her eyes and she smiles sheepishly. “Just don’t quote me, okay?”

“I won’t. But your words are now burned into my memory forever.”

Nicole’s attention shifts, her gaze flicking to a point across the room, and she excuses herself. I turn, but my focus isn’t on her anymore. It’s on Nikolai, who is in the process of extricating himself from a handshake with an older gentleman. I watch ashe heads toward the exit. His broad shoulders cut through the glittering crowd, his polished form a stark contrast to the chaos of my thoughts.

I should let him go. I should stay here, among the lights and laughter, where it’s safe. But something twists in my chest—a sharp, primal instinct that refuses to be ignored. Something is wrong.

Wariness trickles through me as I set my glass on a nearby table and make my way toward the exit. My brothers will notice my absence soon enough, but right now, I can’t shake the unease crawling up my spine.

Then I see a man, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a nondescript black tuxedo, moving through the crowd with the kind of practiced ease that makes him unremarkable—until you know what to look for.

He’s following Nikolai, his pace steady, his intent unmistakable.

I can’t see his face. The glimpse I catch of his profile doesn’t let me identify him.

I don’t think. I follow.

The gala fades behind me as I step into the cooler air of the hallway, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The man keeps a careful distance from Nikolai, his movements deliberate, calculated. My pulse quickens as I trail them, my mind racing through every worst-case scenario. Who is he? What does he want?

By the time I reach the parking garage, my breath is shallow, my nerves stretched taut. The silence here is oppressive, the air thick with the scent of oil and concrete. Shadows stretch long and deep, and I fight the instinct to call out Nikolai’s name.

And then I see him.

Nikolai stands near a sleek black car, his posture relaxed but his shoulders taut, his every muscle coiled for action. A predatorpoised to strike. He doesn’t seem to notice the man following him, but I do. And then another figure steps into the dim light.

Mikhail.

The world narrows, my pulse roaring in my ears.

Nikolai doesn’t hesitate. His gun is in his hand in an instant, its dark barrel pointed directly at his father. The tension between them is a live wire, crackling with years of hatred and resentment. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat, every instinct screaming at me to do something, anything—but I can’t move.

Mikhail steps closer, his face cold and cruel, a smirk twisting his lips. He looks almost relaxed, one hand his pocket, as if this confrontation were nothing more than a casual chat. But in the other, he holds a gun, levelled at Nikolai’s chest.

I shrink back into the shadows.

Mikhail Ivanov is a man carved from weathered granite. His features are sharp and unyielding, his jaw clenched in perpetual disdain. A thick, suffocating aura of malice clings to him like a greasy residue. His pale gray eyes are cold, lifeless. His dark hair, streaked with silver, is slicked back, giving him a calculated, polished appearance, but no amount of grooming can mask the cruelty etched into his features. He exudes power, but it’s a jagged, oppressive kind—like a storm brewing on the horizon.

As I study him, the thought strikes me like a blade: Mikhail Ivanov is the embodiment of everything ruthless and unyielding in this world. He’s not like Nikolai—not even close. Where Nikolai’s strength lies in his complexity, in the fire behind his icy façade, Mikhail is devoid of anything resembling warmth or humanity. There’s no trace of vulnerability, no flicker of compassion. Just cold, calculated evil that seems to seep from his very pores. A chill crawls over my skin as I watch him, my stomach twisting with disgust.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Mikhail says, his voice dripping with mockery. “My prodigal son, standing here like he’s a man. Tell me, Nikolai, is this the moment you finally prove yourself? Or is it just another pathetic attempt to impress me?”

Nikolai’s face is a mask of stone, unreadable. “If you have something to say, say it,Otets.”

“I’ve known about your little plan for weeks,” Mikhail replies, chuckling darkly. “Did you really think you could keep secrets from me, boy? You’re so predictable. So weak.”

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