Page 8 of Hidden Heir

“Yep. With everything your fucking scumbag brother skimmed off the top, plus the shipment he stole, and compensation for me having to come to a fucking flower shop with my allergies, I figure the total comes to seven fifty.”

Does he mean seven hundred and fifty? That’s a lot of money but I could take out a loan and pay it back quickly.

“Is that all?”

It’s not meant to sound mocking but clearly my answer isn’t good enough. The knife against my abdomen flicks to the side and fire licks at my skin as the blade cuts into me. I squeal and whimper, choking on the next wave of tears that consume me.

“Seven hundred and fiftythousand.”

“What?” I screech. “I don’t have that kind of money! I’ve never even seen that kind of money! I can’t, you’re insane. I can’t pay that, this shop isn’t worth nearly that much!” Panic rises in me like a surging wave and I begin to squirm against Paul with all my strength. This has to be some kind of bad dream.

Paul pulls me up against him, hushing me as if I was his lover. His hand slides around my throat and he caresses my jaw, but then his hand is replaced by the blade of the knife and I freeze. I breathe in short, sharp gasps and my heart slows to powerful, terrified thumps.

“I know that already. One look at you and I knew we wouldn’t be getting the cash but don’t worry, Brooke. I’m a businessman.”

One of the other men snorts.

“So I’m giving you a choice. It’s an easy choice really, but I want you to have the fun of deciding. Unless you know where Ant is?”

I contemplate it. I could tell them he’s hiding in my apartment and they could take what they wanted from him, but then his sad, pathetic face flashes in my mind. His soulful words of his struggle, his desire to get better. Besides, for all I know, these fuckers could be lying and this whole thing is one weird power trip.

“I have no idea,” I whisper shakily, straining away from the knife.

“Well then, here are your choices. “Either you go under my knife and I cut out your organs until you give me seven hundred and fifty thousand worth of flesh, or I sell what’s between your pretty legs to a millionaire at my personal auction.”

“You can’t be serious,” I reply. “How is that a choice?”

“I’m a fair man,” Paul says, dropping his tone, “but I’m not always a patient one so what’s it gonna be? I get your organs or some rich fuck gets hours with your pussy? You have no ideawhat men will pay for a no-limits session with a woman as pretty as you. I’d only have to sell you maybe ten times.”

My stomach cramps and there’s nothing stopping the sudden rush of bile up my throat. Paul has enough sense to release me just as I collapse forward and throw up bile onto the floor. Coughing harshly, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Paul drops to his haunches next to me and taps my cheek with the knife.

“Or I could sell your daughter.”

Ice forms in my veins and I lift my blurry gaze to Paul’s hideous amused face. “You’re disgusting.”

“Maybe,” he says as if we’re disagreeing about a movie rating. “But I want my money and I don’t give a shit how I get it.”

There’s only one choice here, one real choice that keeps me and my daughter safe.

“Fine,” I gasp. “Stay the fuck away from my daughter. I’ll be at the auction.”

Paul’s smile turns cold and cruel. “Right answer.”

4

LEON

“Is it done?”

Hearing those three words from my father, Kreik Koval, erases the past thirty-eight years of my life. Suddenly, I’m nine years old staring at his back with my report card hidden behind my own. The weight of his expectations have been crushing ever since I was old enough to feel it, but he’s done great things for our family and every other Russian family underneath our belt. His way works.

So, when he stepped down from the role of Pakhan six months ago and passed the Koval legacy onto me, I knew he would be far from a silent partner. People may look to me for leadership and guidance now, but all of it is done under my father’s watchful eye.

He’s retired on paper only.

“Yes,” I say with my hands clasped behind my back. While my wide-legged stance may appear relaxed, I’m as tense as a tightrope waiting for my father to look at me. “I have it in writing that the family I reached out to in Canada has secured us several trade routes. Our stock from Europe will dock in Canadian harbors, away from the prying eyes of the cartel, and then beescorted south where our people will take over the trucks at the border. I’ve placed several of our own members into the customs route there, so only our people will be checking the trucks to keep up appearances. It will also serve as a checkpoint to ensure none of the cargo being brought over has lessened in quality.”

My father doesn’t reply. He remains stationary with his head down. Behind him, the subtle tinkle of ice hitting glasses reaches my ears.

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