Page 52 of Brazen King

It’s surprisingly hard to visualize Natasha in this home.

I much prefer to picture her in mine.

Still, I enjoy the thought of walking down the halls she frequents, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s here. I hope so.

As Boris steps into his office, something of a standoff occurs behind me—Maksim refusing to let Lance in without hispakhan’s express permission. But Lance won’t stand down until I give the signal.

I do, gesturing for my foster brother to wait outside the door, then I close it behind me. Boris settles behind his desk. It’s a beautiful piece that looks as though it’s made of solid mahogany, and though he does have a laptop off to one side, something about the room gives the space a sense of old-timey, classical mafia boss authority.

“So, you’ve come to talk peace?” Boris asks as I settle into the chair across from him. Amusement tugs at the corners of his lips, as if he’s in on some secret.

“I came to discuss my proposal that perhaps I delivered in a less-than-acceptable manner a while back. Sometimes, I let my rather unfortunate sense of humor get the better of me, but in truth, Boris, I would very much like to make an alliance with your family. And I would like to do so by marrying one of your daughters to prove my sincerity.” It’s as close to an apology as I’ve ever given anybody. But I’m willing to swallow the bitter mouthful of humility if it gets me what I want.

Natasha.

Boris laughs, the deep sound mocking as he throws his head back. And when it finally subsides, he levels me with an unforgiving gaze. “Are you getting desperate for an alliance now that you’re facing war on two fronts?” he taunts. “I heard what happened with the yakuza, and I can only imagine that’s headed down a bad road fast.”

So, that’s the secret Boris thinks he has to hold over me. He thinks I’m worried about Saturo. I smirk. No one so insignificant as that little worm could possibly intimidate me.

My cocky grin seems to goad Boris, though, and his wicked grin widens as he takes the opportunity to taunt me further. “You know what, Killian? Why don’t we discuss your offer over dinner? Perhaps it’s time my daughters weighed in on their fates.”

Anticipation coils in my stomach at the thought of seeing Natasha, and suddenly, I can’t wait to hear what she has to say. “Perfect.”

22

NATASHA

Edna knocks lightly on the gym door to inform me that my father’s requested my presence for dinner, and surprise flits through me because it’s earlier than our usual mealtime.

“It should be ready shortly,” she says. “And he requested that you and Tatiana dress for guests.”

“Sure,” I agree, my fingers slipping from the punching bag I stopped as soon as the maid entered. “Thanks,” I add before she slips back out the door with a subtle curtsy.

Wiping my brow with the back of my hand, I quickly unwind the tape around my knuckles. Then I grab my towel, wiping my face and neck as I head toward the gym door. On the top floor of our penthouse, the gym is state of the art, and on the other side of one mirrored wall is the pool where I swim laps.

But today, I needed to let off some steam, so I went for boxing practice first.

I make quick work of showering and braid my hair back since I won’t have time to style it. Then I sift through my dresses to find one that’s just shy of cocktail attire. I pick out a crimsonvelvet one with a heart-shaped neckline. It hugs my curves before stopping just above my knees.

Tatiana knocks on my door as I’m applying the finishing touches to my eye makeup, and she smiles at me from the doorway, where she looks stunning in her flowing emerald-green silk halter-top dress.

“Any guesses on who we’re dining with?” she asks cheekily, combing her thick and perfectly styled waves of auburn hair over one shoulder.

I shake my head. “Papa didn’t mention anyone at breakfast.”

“Maybe it slipped his mind—what with the news about the Kings and the yakuza.”

“Could be,” I agree. Applying a dark-red lipstick that matches my dress, I smack my lips as I consider myself good enough. Then I join my sister as we descend the steps to the main floor.

My heart skips a beat, my feet faltering as we reach the landing.

What the hell is Killian’s hulking right-hand man doing here?

Lance, I recall his name. And he looks less than pleased about his current circumstances, though he keeps his hands clasped behind him as he and Maksim glare daggers at each other.

“Maks?” Tatiana inquires, her gaze flitting over the gargantuan Irish captain.

“Baryshnya,” Maks responds politely, addressing my sister with respect as he turns his attention in our direction. “Your father?—”

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