Page 117 of Kings of Cruelty

“Yura and Nikolai will come back,” I tell her. I kiss her again, then push away. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t wait to listen to more of her protests. As soon as I step out of the van, I’m pelted by a barrage of rain. I’m instantly soaked, but the storm gives me more cover than the clear night would have. If Sierra shouts for me, I don’t hear her.

I run toward the compound, and I use the hole Nikolai and Yura had made to get onto the property. They had gone for the guest room, but I make my way across the yard until I find my workshop.

The lights are on inside.

I push the sliding door open to find my father sitting on the rocking chair, his pistol across his lap.

I tighten my grip on my own gun.

“Konstantin,” my father greets.

I step under the roof of the work shed and wipe some of the water from my face. “Roman is dead,” I tell him.

For a split second, my father’s expression falters. Then it goes hard again. “Disappointing. I thought he was stronger than that.”

Despite the callous words, I can tell he’s affected by that news.

“Does that make me your heir now?” I ask.

My father doesn’t answer. I don’t know what I want to hear—that he values me as much as my brother? That he is proud of how I took out the competition?

But I don’t have any hope of that. I knew, last night, that it was over. No matter what my father says now, it will not be enough for me.

“Roma was a good man,” my father says, standing up. “He knew how to follow the rules. He didn’t try to rise above me.” He shakes his head and stops by the half-constructed crib. “But you were never content to simply do as you were told.”

“I tried that,” I counter. “I tried to fit into the mold you wanted, but all it got me was pain and humiliation. You put Petrov in charge instead of me!”

My father lets out a dark chuckle. “Is that what this is all about? Because I didn’t let you claim this operation?” He shakes his head. “I was right. As soon as you tasted power, you wanted more of it.”

He raises his gun and aims it at me.

I aim back, my body completely steady.

“What do you want, Konstantin?” my father asks. “Money? Connections? I have both. But if you kill me, you will get none of it.”

“I have money, I have connections,” I bite back. “You think the people in Russia will care about me here?”

Now my father’s eyes narrow. “You don’t intend to return?”

I shake my head. “There is nothing for me there. You ensured that. You could have let me have this portion of our empire, and I would have slaved away for you for the rest of your miserable life. But you could not allow me even that small victory. You could not stand to see me thrive.”

“Are you not thriving?” My father lowers the gun and runs his hand along the railing of the crib. “Who is this for, Konstantin? You did not make a crib for Roman’s boy.”

Fury washes over me, watching him touch the imperfect thing I made, which is not as good as the cribs I could buy yet has all of my dreams inside it.

“It is for my child, myheir,” I tell him. “Step away from the crib.”

“So Vasily was right about that woman.” My father lets go and shakes his head. “My testament is clear. Everything goes to Roman and his firstborn son. If you want your child to inherit anything, I would need to talk to my lawyers.”

That doesn’t surprise me at all. “Did you even consider me for a single second?” I demand. “Did you wonder if your other son should receive any of your fortunes?”

“Why should I have?” my father asks. “You are a bastard. I have no proof you are even my blood—your slut mother could easily have fucked another while I was away. You are lucky I took you into my household at all.”

The casual insult toward my mother has anger rushing over me. I sprint forward and pistol-whip him, sending him crashing against the crib. He suppresses a groan of pain.

His gun clatters into the crib, and I grab him by the collar to throw him to the ground. He scrambles to get up, but I kick him in the side.

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