Page 73 of Mile High Daddy

I lean back in my chair, exhaling through my nose. “You would kill her mother?”

She arches a delicate brow. “Wouldn’t you?”

I don’t answer.

Not because I’m unsure—because I am.

I don’t hesitate when it comes to eliminating threats. I don’t hesitate when it comes to punishing betrayal. But Lila’s mother isn’t a threat. She’s leverage.

I tap my fingers against the glass, considering. “And if she doesn’t know where Lila is?”

My mother scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Then make her suffer until she does. People will tell you anything when you take away what they love.”

A long silence stretches between us.

I meet her gaze. “And if I say no?”

She doesn’t blink. “Then I will do it myself.”

The words settle in the air between us, thick with warning.

She’s not bluffing.

If I don’t handle this my way, my mother will handle it hers.

And I already know what that looks like.

Ekaterina Ivanova will not leave Lila’s mother breathing.

She would kill her and have her body dumped in the street, a brutal message to anyone who dares cross our family. A warning written in blood.

The music thrumsthrough the club, low and pulsing, the bass vibrating in my chest like a heartbeat.

One of my clubs. One of many.

The club is packed—bodies moving, voices overlapping, the scent of expensive perfume mingling with whiskey and sweat.

But none of it touches me.

I sit in the VIP section, my fingers curled around a glass of vodka, staring at nothing as the world moves around me.

A girl drapes herself over my side, pressing her hands against my chest, her lips close to my ear. “Mikhail,” she purrs, her breath warm, cloying. “You’ve been ignoring me all night.”

I barely glance at her.

Because I don’t care.

She’s not Lila.

And that means she’s nothing to me.

Without a word, I shift slightly, and she gets the message. She huffs in annoyance before slinking away, disappearing into the crowd.

Good.

I exhale through my nose, tilting my glass, letting the liquor burn down my throat.

Across the room, Evans is sprawled out on the couch, two women draped over him like expensive accessories. He looks comfortable, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, a cigar resting between his fingers.

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