Page 101 of Santa Daddy
Konstantin stalked after him, gun already in his hand, safety off.
“You step in my apartment again,” he said, voice flat as a firing range, “you look at her again, I don’t care what piece of paper my father signed. I don’t care what old men say. I will find way to make you disappear.”
Maksim’s laugh was a wet, ugly thing. “You think they did not let me in on purpose?” he wheezed. “Door did not just…listen to me.”
Konstantin’s eyes narrowed.
“How did you get past my lock?” he asked.
“Ask your council,” Maksim said, smiling through blood. “Some of them are more my family than yours.”
The private elevator chimed from the hall. That deeper, secure sound I’d only heard once.
An older male voice cut in, dry and annoyed. “You boys trying to redecorate my investment?” he said in Russian, then in English. “Konstantin. Put the gun down.”
I hadn’t even heard the man approach.
Baranov stood in the doorway, coat open, eyes cold. Another guard hovered behind him, gun already out but angled at the floor.
Konstantin didn’t lower the pistol.
“He came in,” he said, words clipped, “touched my wife, tried to rip clothes off. In my kitchen.”
“I see,” Baranov said. His gaze flicked over the scene—wine and blood, broken glass, my torn shirt, my half-covered chest, Maksim on the floor. His expression didn’t change. “Nasty.”
He didn’t look surprised.
“How did he get in?” Konstantin asked, not taking his eyes off cousin or Pakhan. “Door was locked.”
“I approved override,” Baranov said, as if he was talking about a lightbulb. “After photo, I wanted to know if you still kept her here. If she was calm. If rumor about elevator was true.”
“So you opened my door to him,” Konstantin said slowly, “and turned me into audience for your little test.”
“We didn’t plan for him to put his hands on her,” Baranov said. “We opened the door. What he did with it—” shrug “—you stopped it. That’s the data we needed.”
“You said she would be protected as my wife,” Konstantin said. The wordwifecame out like it had teeth. “No one orders herdeathwithout declaring war.”
“She is protected from cheap bullets in street,” Baranov said. “She is not protected from consequences of your choices.” His eyes flicked to me and back, already dismissing me. “You want us to stand between her and your enemies, we must know what she is. Whatyouare.”
My stomach turned.
So this had never been about my safety.
It had been about seeing if Konstantin would break. How much.
“How far you will go for her,” Baranov added. “How stupid you are willing to be.”
Killing Maksim would have been the “too stupid” line, apparently.
Konstantin’s jaw flexed. The gun never dipped.
“Get him out of my sight,” he said finally, each word a crack in marble. “Before I decide I do not care about your opinion.”
Baranov nodded to the other guard. “Pick him up,” he said in Russian. “Clean this.”
The guard hauled Maksim to his feet. Maksim shot me a look through blood-rimmed lashes—hatred, arrogance, and something like satisfaction all tangled together.
Then they were gone. Elevator chime. Door. Silence.
