Page 45 of Hero Worship

"Mr. Dubois expects better manners from his guests," Anton said quietly in Russian. The young man's face went from red to purple before Anton released him with a gentle pat on the cheek. Message delivered.

A curtain of cigarette smoke parted as Anton opened the door to the private room in the back. Two men dominated the space. One sat behind an ornate antique desk with intricate carvingsthat screamed old money, the other looming by the window like he was posing for a mob boss photoshoot. The room itself was a perfect blend of old world and new wealth. Crystal decanters caught the light from modern recessed fixtures, while an actual samovar sat steaming in the corner beneath what looked like an original Kandinsky.

My heart stuttered when I recognized Nikolai Dubois from Papa’s old family photos. He bore an unmistakable resemblance to Uncle Sacha, bearing the same sharp cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, and the same stocky build. It was like looking at a ghost. My uncle, who had been killed three years ago. This was his son from his second marriage, and there was no mistaking it.

Ash positioned himself carefully near a support column, subtly leaning against it to take weight off his bad knee, but he remained alert and ready to react.

"Cousin," Nikolai said warmly in Russian, though his eyes remained sharp as he kissed my cheeks. "How kind of you to join us on such short notice."

The man by the window turned, and my breath caught. Viktor Vasiliev's presence filled the room like smoke, heavy and choking. The scar along his jaw stood out like pale wire against his flushed skin as his eyes tracked me with undisguised disgust, taking in my dress, my heels, the feminine grace I'd spent years perfecting.

But it was the way he avoided looking at the photos spread across Nikolai's desk that made my chest tight. Even from here, I could see Misha in the surveillance shots. Misha looked elegant in designer suits at Roche's side, but his eyes were haunted.

"So this is what's left of the Volkov line," Viktor said in Russian, each word precise as a blade. "Simeon the Immortal would weep to see what his bloodline has become."

I smiled, channeling every inch of Nikita’s lessons in making pleasantries sound like threats. "Simeon is rotting in anunmarked grave without a head," I pointed out in Russian. "And my gay brother put him there. Guess he wasn't so immortal after all."

The color drained from Viktor's face, leaving his scar in stark relief. That was the thing about the old guard. They hated being reminded that their precious traditions hadn't saved them from the new generation.

"I believe family matters should be handled by family," Nikolai said smoothly, his accent pure French, despite the Russian words. "Which is why I wanted to discuss your daughter's unfortunate choice in companions."

Misha’s misgendering hit me like a slap. My fingers twitched toward my concealed blade before I could stop them. "His name is Misha," I snapped, abandoning any pretense of diplomacy. "And he's not anyone'sdaughter."

Nikolai's eyes glittered with something that might have been approval. "My apologies," he said. "You're right, of course. Times change, even if some of us are slower to adapt."

"That person is nothing to me," Viktor spat, but his eyes kept dragging back to the photos. "My child died when she decided to—"

"The right pronouns had better start coming out of your mouth," I cut in, letting ice coat every syllable. "Or I’ll have to show you why misgendering people is bad for your health."

“You claim you don’t care, yet you have people watching the house.” Nikolai's voice held a dangerous edge. "Following their movements. Documenting every venue they visit." He tapped one of the surveillance photos. "These aren't my people's work, Viktor. This is your surveillance team. Your resources being spent to track someone who is supposedly 'nothing' to you."

Viktor's hand shook as he lit his cigarette. Smoke curled between us like all the words he couldn't or wouldn't say. "Imonitor all potential threats to our interests. Roche has become unpredictable. Unstable."

"Has he?" I kept my voice neutral, though rage still simmered beneath the surface at his continued misgendering of Misha. "Or has he just grown confident that his connections protect him? That having the child of Viktor Vasiliev in his bed makes him untouchable?"

The cigarette snapped between Viktor's fingers, tobacco spilling onto the desk. His face twisted with something ugly. "You dare—"

"Yes, I dare." I leaned forward, letting him see the steel beneath my carefully crafted appearance. "Because someone needs to say what everyone in this room is thinking. You drove your child away with your bigotry, and now you're too proud to admit you might have been wrong. Too wrapped up in your precious masculinity to acknowledge that your son might be in danger."

"Careful, cousin," Nikolai murmured, but there was something like approval in his eyes.

"No." I was done being careful. Done watching Viktor hide behind his prejudice while Misha's life hung in the balance. "You want to know why Roche's security has gotten so bold? Because they know. They know you're watching. They know you keep tabs on every move Misha makes. And they know you'll never actually do anything about it because you're too ashamed to admit you still care."

"Which brings us to why I called this meeting," Nikolai said. "As head of the Russian consortium's interests in France, I find myself... concerned about certain developments." He gestured to the photos. "Roche has grown bold. Careless. His private security force has become increasingly visible at certain establishments. Le Baron, L'Arc. Places where young men tendto... disappear." His eyes met mine. "Perfect opportunities for a wealthy couple new to Paris to make his acquaintance."

The photos spread across the desk made my stomach turn. It was a mix of crime scene shots, missing persons reports, evidence carefully buried but not quite deep enough. And among them, those surveillance photos of Misha, looking both elegant and trapped in Roche's orbit.

"Why involve Lucky Losers?" I asked, watching Nikolai's face. Something wasn't adding up.

His smile was sharp. "Perhaps I specifically requested their most qualified operative. One with... unique insight into certain family dynamics."

"You knew." It wasn't a question. "You knew I worked for them."

"I make it my business to know where useful assets are positioned." He shrugged elegantly. "Having family involved provides certain... advantages."

"Roche's security detail," Ash cut in, his voice professionally detached, though his hand stayed warm on my shoulder. "What are we looking at?"

"Former military, mostly local," Nikolai said. "He pays extremely well for loyalty. But money only breeds so much dedication." His smile turned predatory. "And I know exactly how much everyone's loyalty costs in this city."

---