Page 67 of Cruel Existence

“You are going to give me time?” he mocked me.

I nodded. “Whatever you need. Really. I remember how hard it was when my father died.”

I didn’t mention that he never contacted me when I was in mourning. My father died only a month after Luka left for Europe. I had stared at my phone for weeks, hoping, praying, begging he would reach out to me. He never did. I didn’t know if he even knew I had been kidnapped during that time. I blocked out the horror and faced him.

“I’ve heard people whispering about you,” he explained. “I know what they are calling you, Amara. I know what youown. Who you have deals with. What you stole from my family.”

“I’ve stolen nothing,” I hissed.

He shook his head. “Who are you? What happened to that girl I met?”

I sighed. “The girl in the pool house?” It was almost as if he was trying to recall a sweet meet-cute.

“Yes.” His eyes softened briefly. “Why are they calling you the queen of the Crescent City? How the fuck did that happen?”

“You make it sound like a bad thing.” My eyes narrowed. He had no idea how hard I worked to earn the respect of our fathers’ peers.

“You’re proud of it?” he growled.

I tilted my chin upward. “You grew up Russian mafia royalty. Don’t judge me. You have no right.”

“But this? How?”

I started to realize he had been kept in the dark. It seemed unlikely, but his line of questioning seemed sincere. I had to remind myself he was trained Bratva and it could all be a trap. There was still a possibility Dmitry hadn’t told Luka anything about our arrangements. I was as shocked as he was.

“You could have stayed in touch,” I whispered. “You would have known more. You would have known something.”

“I stayed away because—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You need to understand something. I’m taking it all back. Every damn thing you wrenched away from my family. It wasn’t yours to begin with. I can’t let it fucking stand. Do you hear me?”

“Luka, it’s business. You know that.”

“Don’t!” he yelled. The growl in his voice echoed around the small chamber. The candles on the wall shook. I expected Ciro to rush in, but the confessional was soundproof. “You don’t get to lecture me about business. About families. About organizations. About deals and negotiations, you knew nothing about. You were a college grad lounging at the pool. Drinking on Instagram. Too buzzed to know who you partied with. What the hell, Amara?”

I slid the glove over my right hand, taking my time to make sure my fingers fit securely. I’d met with impatience and rage for years.

I met his eyes.

“Trust me, I’m not the girl who drinks on Instagram anymore.” I stepped closer so he could hear my whispers.

I inhaled his cologne. His masculine scent that I’d dreamed about almost every night since he left. Nights I’d shot straight up in bed, wishing I could get on a plane to Paris. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to look in his eyes. I wanted to trace the lines of the ink on his skin. I wanted to see his sexy grin and laugh with him about something utterly ridiculous. This version of Luka was foreign to me. He was angry. Bitter. Soulless. He had returned to his Bratva roots. There was no redemption here.

“That’s fucking clear,” he spat.

I unlocked the latch. “Have Viktor call Barbara. She’ll set up a meeting for our legal teams.”

“That is not how we do business,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “You can come to me.”

“What you don’t realize is that it’s how I do business. It’s how the city is run now. Not by brutes and thugs. I’ve cleaned things up since you’ve been gone.”

I was about to falter. Slip against him. He leaned toward me. My heart beat so hard and forcefully I wondered if he heard how many beats had bruised the inside of my chest. The warmth of his breath grazed my cheek.

“I remember your weaknesses, kotyonok.”

My eyes flared. “You can’t call me that.” My voice trembled.

“Ty moya,” he whispered.

I had to get out of here. Away from him. Out of his air. Away from the heat of his eyes.

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