Page 43 of Dirty Damage

Fuck.

A father.

I meant what I said to Sutton: I plan to be a good parent—whatever the hell that means.

I look through the window to the darkness stretching in every direction. The coastline has disappeared, leaving us surrounded by endless, empty blue.

No escape.

No witnesses.

Just my most trusted men and the truth I’m about to drop.

“Both are coming, in time.”

A wave of appreciative chuckles rolls through the room. These men have followed me through blood and fire. They know what it means when I set my mind to something.

“To the futurepakhan!” Artem yells, raising his glass. The men follow suit, hollering in approval.

“To lighting a fire under Boris’s ass!”

The cheers grow louder.

“And to making babies!”

Wolf whistles and catcalls fill the air. In the mayhem, Artem slides closer, his voice low. “Have you even proposed to her yet?”

“Not yet. But she’ll agree.”

“How can you be so sure?”

As if on cue, my phone vibrates.

The image loads—my contract on the pale pink comforter of her bed…

… with her signature flowing across the dotted line like destiny.

13

SUTTON

Of course it’s a penthouse.

And naturally, it’s nestled in the crown of Palm Beach’s most prestigious high-rise.

There’s rarified air, and then there’s whatever diamond-filtration system the people that live up there are huffing.

My forehead is still pressed to the bulletproof glass of the back window, gawking at the twenty-story monument to wealth, when Uri—the mountain masquerading as my new driver—thrusts a phone and a set of keys at me.

“For you.”

I take them both like they might explode in my hands. The contract I signed with Oleg was a detonator, blowing up my entire existence.

My downstairs neighbor Mr. Marcello’s granddaughter is already measuring my apartment for curtains, prepared to inherit not just my lease but most of my furniture.

Even if this whole thing with the Beast is a practical joke, there’s no going back now—I’m jobless, homeless, and couchless.

This is serious business.

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