Page 89 of Sinful Promise

The country of Monaco is only for the wealthy. We roll down the long driveway and come upon a huge house the color of burnt sienna. Cream shutters adorn the windows. Here, everything is a mixture of French and Mediterranean styles. The lawn is manicured, and a cottage sits on the back of the property for the housekeeper, Sofia, and her husband, who oversees house repairs and landscaping.

Within twenty minutes, we pull up to the gate. It opens, and I hear the distinct chatter of muffled voices as the men communicate, treating our arrival like a presidential detail.

My mansion overlooks the sea. The vehicle proceeds to the house and stops. Two guards are waiting and step forward to open our doors. Dasha gets out on her side, and I exit on mine. The guards survey the property and speak into their coms. They are dressed in black suits, and one of them nods to me that the coast is clear. I begin to walk, and Dasha follows. It’s a familiar protocol, these precautions, though this is slightly different. We’ve just never had to live our life as if we were under the surveillance of a madman.

We join Alex, Irina, and Francesca, who follow us through the back door of the house.

“Where are we?” Dasha asks, scanning the estate.

“Home.”

“Right. You’re a billionaire. Why not have a home on the French Riviera suitable for a king?”

I decide to overlook her sarcastic remark for now. We go through the kitchen, where the staff is busily cooking breakfast meats and omelets. Coffee permeates the air. The espresso machine groans.

Ah, home. I love the water, but this is my true home. Russia is my motherland, and I know I’ll live there most of the time, but vacations make what I do bearable. I don’t kill women or children, and we don’t traffic them, either. I hope the codes we live by will never be tested.

Sofia takes a break from overseeing the kitchen staff, facing me as I walk by. I give her a nod, and she nods back before returning to work. We have an understanding that requires little conversation. She’s the best cook. She runs the house efficiently and anticipates what I need. I don’t give her grief and pay her well.

The commotion of the kitchen is music to my ears. I am pulled out of my thoughts by a familiar voice yelling my name, and I rush into the formal living room.

“Brother,” I exclaim, grabbing him in a hug. “I thought you were in a safe house.”

“I’m the don, and no one fucks with me.” Nikolay slaps me on the back. “I want to take Andrian out.” He observes me for a minute. “You look well,” he says finally.

“I am.”

He looks to my left. “You must be Dasha.” He extends his hand to her, and Dasha nervously accepts it. They shake. “I hear you’ve been at the center of all the excitement.”

“It’s not how I would have liked for us to meet,” she replies with hooded eyes. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“Thank you. However, we’ll make it right,” Nikolay replies confidently.

“Nikolay!” Alex’s boisterous voice can’t be missed as he enters the room.

“Alex, nice to see you.” Nikolay greets him with a hearty slap on his back, and Alex engulfs him with his large arms to fuck with him. We share a warm chuckle. We’re like a pop band getting reacquainted after a break.

“These are our friends, Irina and Francesca.” I introduce the women, who are casually dressed in a jumper and capri pants with a matching tank, respectively.

Nikolay murmurs a greeting. “Thank you for coming. How is your husband, Francesca?”

“Great, he’s hanging out with his brothers. Dante conveniently arranged for a guys’ weekend in Greece, so here I am.” She smiles and shrugs as if she doesn’t mind putting her life on the line.

Her reputation precedes her. She was diabolical enough to take out her own brothers when they aligned with traffickers, so it’s not inconceivable that she’s here to help us get rid of one more.

“Lucky guys,” Irina says, extending a hand to Nikolay.

“Thank you for joining us, Irina. Roman has mentioned you over the years.”

“Nothing but clean stories, I hope,” she teases.

“Absolutely,” my brother replies with a wink.

“Any word from Dmitry?” I ask Nikolay.

“I’m not sure. He is trying to get out of New York and traveling under an alias.” Nikolay shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

I nod. It’s to be expected in times of war. The playing field is treacherous, and I’m not used to him being so far away.

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