Page 62 of Savage Reign

He sneers. “I was surprised to hear that you missed our meeting to take your wife on a shopping spree. Very unlike you.”

Fucking Vadim and his big mouth.

I hold his stare, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “Sofiya is an extension of me and my bratva. She’s expected to look a certain way.” My jaw tightens. “What’s the business we need to discuss?” I ask, steering the conversation back on track.

I pass him a glass of brandy as we settle into the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. Igor raises the glass to his lips; his gaze is locked on mine as he takes a measured sip. “Our timeline has been moved up.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means the minister wants to award the casino contract sooner than expected,” he explains. “In the next three weeks.”

“Well, that’s fucking inconvenient,” I snap, a wave of irritation building.

He leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the armrest. “It’s been well over a week, and we’ve heard little from the Syndicate. It’s time to apply more pressure on Roman to accept the deal. He’s dragging his fucking feet because he thinks he can. We need to show him there are consequences for his inaction.”

I swirl my drink, a bad feeling brewing. Igor hasn’t spelled out how he expects us to bring the Syndicate to heel, but I know where this conversation is heading.

“Roman’s not a man who admits defeat easily,” I say, keeping my tone measured. “Don’t forget, I know how the Syndicate operates. They need time to realize they’re out of options and come to us. Trust me, I’ll make sure they feel the pressure.”

“How?”

My spine stiffens at the challenge in his voice. Igor may be powerful, but I’m the pakhan, and I don’t take orders from anyone. I slam my palm on the table between us, making his whiskey glass rattle.

“You don’t need to worry about the how,” I bite out. “I said I’d handle it, and I will.”

Igor’s face hardens. “Will you? Because skipping meetings to take your wife shopping makes it seem like your focus is slipping.”

“My focus isn’t slipping,” I grit out. “We just have different methods for getting results. You believe in the stick, but I see value in the carrot. Don’t mistake that for weakness.”

Igor reaches for his drink as he stares into the roaring fire. “I think we both know that sticks are more effective in the world we operate in. The Syndicate needs to see how brutal you can be. How much Sofiya is suffering at your hands. They need to be desperate—willing to do anything to end her misery.”

Tension lines my shoulders, lodging at the base of my neck. Roman blew a gasket when I sent him the pictures of Sofiya marked with my tattoo, and that was child’s play. Igor is right. Hurting her would set things in motion, but it would also have far-reaching consequences. More than that, the thought of causing her pain makes my stomach churn with disgust.

I grip the glass so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t crack under the pressure. “We need to be fucking smart about this. We’re proposing a partnership with the Syndicate. If we abuse Sofiya more than we already have, when the time comes, they’ll seek revenge.”

“It won’t matter. By the time they make their move, we will be untouchable.” His tone goes cold. “If you can’t do it, I will.”

“You will not fucking touch her,” I growl.

My eyes scan the room, looking for anything I could turn into a weapon. If he so much as looks at Sofiya the wrong way, I’ll make him regret it. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.

A knock at the door interrupts the standoff. No one on my staff would dare disturb me during a meeting.

“Nikolai? Are you in there?”

Fuck. It’s Sofiya. The universe must be laughing at me right now.

Unease anchors itself in my chest. The last thing I wanted is for Igor to see how protective I’ve become of her, but I’ve done a shitty job hiding it.

“This is a bad time,” I snap, hoping she’ll scurry off.

Igor’s fingers drum lazily against the armrest, his expression smug. “Not at all. Please invite her in. I’d like to meet your wife.”

“Come in, Sofiya,” I say eventually.

The door creaks open, and she steps inside, wearing the black leotard with mesh panels and a low scooped neckline that shows off her round breasts. I drag a full breath into my lungs to keep my reaction in check.

Sofiya’s eyes widen as she realizes I’m not alone. She hesitates, looking to me for reassurance. “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt. I wanted to say thank you for the leotard. It fits perfectly. I’ll be on my wa?—”

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