Page 91 of Kings of Cruelty

My father.

I hang up and put the phone into my pocket, then slowly stand. “Father. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“If you’d paid attention, you would have,” my father responds.

My father is a tall man, with a thick white beard and heavy eyebrows. His lips are curled into mild disdain, an expression I’m more than familiar with. I have been subjected to it for the majority of my life.

Two large men carrying heavy weaponry stand beside him. I have no illusions about being able to take all of them out without dying in the process.

“Why are you here?” I demand.

My father gestures to one of the men, who does a sweep of the kitchen. He spots Nikolai and aims his gun at him. “There’s another one here, Boss!”

Nikolai slowly sets his gun down on the floor beside him, and one of the men stomps over to kick it away from him. Nikolai rises, hands out in surrender, but he—for once—keeps his mouth shut.

My father glances at Nikolai, then looks back at me. He doesn’t think Nikolai is a threat.

“I’ve heard from Petrov and Andronov. You’ve disobeyed my direct orders.” My father steps closer to me and extends his hand. “Your gun, Konstantin.”

I grit my teeth and consider shooting him. He’s so fucking sure I won’t do anything—but Nikolai is right here, and even if I didn’t care what happened to me, I wouldn’t want Nikolai and the others to suffer for my actions.

I hand the gun to my father. He removes the cartridge before tossing the gun onto the floor.

Then he punches me in the jaw. For a man in his sixties, he keeps fit, and I’m sent reeling a few steps.

“Now you will explain why I had to hear from my allies that my orders were being ignored,” my father says with a sneer.

I rub my jaw and glare at him. “I ignored them because I disagreed with them. The flesh trade isn’t a business for us.”

“Disagreed?” my father repeats. “You do notdisagreewith me, Konstantin. You do as you are told. The flesh trade has been earning us more profits than anything else we’ve done, and the Americans are just as happy to pay for their women as the Russians.”

“Fine. I don’t want to be part of it,” I growl at him. “The business is foul.”

He barks out a laugh. “You have a conscience now? America has turned you soft?”

Not America.

One specific American.

My thoughts go to Sierra, and I’m grateful I allowed her to attend her classes.

The kitchen door swings open again, and Roman enters. The family resemblance between him and my father is uncanny. There are photos of my father in his youth that are near indistinguishable from Roman. Even now, the main difference between them is that Roman still has pitch black hair, and he only has a mustache instead of a full beard.

Roman’s white shirt has several obvious bloodstains on it. I wonder if that’s Boris’s blood, or if I will find more of my men maimed or dead.

“We’ve secured the mansion,” Roman says to my father. His eyes flicker to Nikolai, and he frowns. “Where’s the other one? The brat who sucks on your teat?”

He never did like Yura. I think he’s jealous that none of his men will ever be so loyal to him as Yura is to me.

“I don’t know,” I respond, which could almost be true. After all, if he and Sierra listened to Nikolai’s instructions, they’ll have gone into hiding by now.

My father makes an annoyed sound. “So the manor isn’t secured after all.”

Roman flinches at the accusation, but he recovers quickly. “He’s not on the premises. We would have found him.”

The door swings open again, and I glare at the intruder. Nikolai inhales sharply when we see who it is: Vasily Bacurin, Nikolai’s father. He’s dressed much better than the last time I’d seen him, although his eyes still have the sunken qualities of a drunkard.

Vasily gives Nikolai a disappointed look. “You idiot.”

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