Page 96 of Sweet Obsession
Stupid of my father to come here, to Yakutsk of all places. Maybe he thought he had allies. Maybe Chernov. Maybe he washere to strike at Misha. But I wasn’t about to let him leave unscathed.
The restaurant was a dark pit full of cigar smoke and secrets. Velvet walls. Bratva men sipping vodka. Deals whispered like death.
He was there. My father. Polished. Calm. A predator.
I didn’t wait.
I stormed across the room, slammed my palms on his table. “You killed him,” I said, shaking. “Stepan. You gave him to the Vargas like he was nothing.”
He didn’t flinch. Just lifted his glass and sipped his drink, calm as ever—like this was just another business deal, another corpse he’d stepped over on his way to power.
Back when Yuri and I were together, I’d asked him what family he belonged to. He refused to answer. I should’ve known then. Should’ve walked away. I only learned the truth weeks ago, when I returned to Colombia for his funeral. That he was Vargas. That I had unknowingly dated one of the sons of one of the deadliest cartels in Bogotá.
“It was business,” he said flatly. “Stepan got careless. I did what needed to be done.”
“You destroyed everything.” My voice broke as I lunged, grabbing his collar. “Misha, Stepan... me. You call that business?”
He grabbed my wrist, squeezing tight. “Watch your mouth,” he hissed. “You think Misha will protect you forever? I’ll ruin both of you. You and that trembling sister of yours.”
My eyes locked on the leather briefcase beside him, the one he’d just pulled a file from, whispering something to the Bratva man beside him. I knew that box held more than business. It held secrets. Rot.”
Rage snapped through me. I wrenched free and without thinking, I grabbed it.
“Luna,” he warned.
“You’re no father to me,” I said, but the words tasted like ash. I didn’t know if I meant them, not yet, but I needed to say them. I needed to choose someone. And I wasn’t choosing him.
I walked out, chest heaving. Snow whipped my face. Oleg and Nikolai trailed me, silent.
I opened the box as I moved. Inside, papers, receipts, transfers. My father’s deals with Chernov. The Vargas. Odessa. Plans. Timelines. Coordinates. Proof.
The bastards had joined forces. The same alliance that kidnapped Gabriela. The same ones who ambushed Misha and me at the warehouse days ago.
Nikolai offered to drive. I refused. I needed air. I needed to feel something besides the burn in my throat.
And then, movement.
Three men stepped out of the alley. Black coats. Tattoos. Knives gleaming.
Vargas.
I barely had time to scream.
But Misha was there.
A shadow. A bullet. A snarl.
He shot the first man in the throat, dragged me behind him, fired again. Oleg and Nikolai closed in fast, gunfire splitting the cold. Blood hit the snow like paint.
“Stay with me!” Misha growled, grabbing my hand, dragging me through the chaos.
The blood was barely dry on the snow when Misha slammed the warehouse door shut behind us, his chest still heaving. “Safe,” he muttered, but I saw his hands shaking as he pressed them to my back. Mine were worse.
He spun toward Nikolai. “Sweep the alley again. I want every second of footage from nearby cameras. No more fucking surprises.”
Nikolai nodded and disappeared into the dark.
“To hell with this ceasefire,” Oleg muttered. “And what about Chernov?”
