Page 142 of Royal Bargain
For a moment, I think he might actually hit him.
Dariy falters, chest heaving, but he doesn’t back down. Not entirely. He looks like a dog who just realized his leash is shorter than he thought.
“You taught me to protect this family,” he says, quieter now, but still dangerous. “I won’t apologize for doing that.”
Anatoly stares him down like he’s already dead.
“Protecting this family doesn’t mean turning on your blood the second you don’t understand them.” His eyes flick toward Annika. “She’s still my daughter. And if you ever raise a hand to her again—if you ever speak her name with that filth in your mouth—I’ll put you in the ground myself. Do you understand me, Dariy?”
It’s dead quiet.
No one moves. No one breathes.
Finally, Dariy nods—just once. But it’s not surrender. It’s something colder. Quieter. Like a promise waiting to be collected.
I step forward, slowly, keeping my gun low but ready.
“She didn’t betray you,” I say, voice rough. “She was set up. Someone’s been playing all of us—feeding us half-truths, pushing us closer to the edge until we were too blinded by blood to see the real threat.”
Anatoly doesn’t respond, but his eyes snap to mine. Calculating. Listening.
“She didn’t come to me because she wanted to start a war,” I go on. “She came to me because someone was trying to kill her. Someone who wanted her dead before she could talk. And now you’re watching your own men turn on each other.”
I gesture toward Dariy, who’s still seething.
“You think that’s a coincidence?”
Dariy lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh, spare us the cloak-and-dagger bullshit, Brannagan. Who’s the phantom villain in your little story? Who’s got the power to manipulate both families without being seen?”
I look at him, then at Anatoly, then back again.
And then I go still.
My mind is racing.
“Someone with money,” I murmur. “Someone with connections in both city hall and the streets. Someone who stood to gain from our fighting each other. Someone who’s always three steps ahead.”
I stare at Dariy, voice low, deliberate.
“Who said it had to be one of us?”
My mind reels—racing, grasping, reaching for something I can’t quite see. There’s a pattern here, I know there is. A threadweaving through all of this, pulling every move like it’s all been choreographed from the start.
Anatoly is still staring at me. Not hostile. Not convinced, either. Just… watching.
I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff with the answer on the tip of my tongue, just out of reach.
And then, something shifts.
A thought. A question. A crack in the fog.
“Who stood the most to gain from everything?” I ask, drawing the words out slowly.
The election. The district. The security contracts. The chaos.
At first, the answer feels obvious.
“Burns,” I breathe out. “That smug bastard. He’s the one who reaped the rewards. His campaign surged. The Harborview district flipped. He came out on top like a snake in a tailored suit.”
