Page 34 of The Wrong Brother
“Somehow that answer is more concerning.”
I rise from my chair slowly, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt while my mind already shifts toward the planning phase. Flights, security, catching the political fallout on every single device I can so I can watch it over and over and over.
Revenge, finally within reach after all these years.
“Until then,” I say calmly, “you will remain here.”
Emma narrows her eyes immediately. “You mean hostage-style? Or do I get to leave the bedroom?”
For one brief, uncomfortable second, guilt blooms in my chest. Because despite the luxury surrounding her, despite the money and protection and careful treatment, Emma is not entirelywrong. I’ve trapped her here. And I haven’t lied; if she runs, I’ll go out and drag her right back.
The realization irritates me enough that I shove it aside immediately. This is necessary; temporary. She stays by my side in Colorado and gets to leave with money, to do with whatever she pleases.
Andrei started this years ago.
Now, I intend to finish it.
* * *
Stepan arrives just after midnight.
He lets himself into the house without knocking, which tells me immediately how irritated he is. Most people in this organization treat my home like sacred ground.
He looks around once before settling sharp eyes on me. “You sent three different men scrambling across Los Angeles today because of a woman.”
I continue pouring vodka into two glasses without looking up. “And yet they survived the experience.”
“That is not the point.”
No.
It isn’t.
I slide one of the glasses toward him across the desk. Stepan ignores it completely, jaw tight beneath the scar cutting through his beard. He’s older than me by nearly fifteen years and hasspent most of those years cleaning up my worst impulses, hiding them behind the varnish of a legitimate business.
Which means he already knows exactly what this is.
“Colorado,” he says flatly.
I lean back in my chair slowly. “Yes.”
“This is a mistake.”
“Probably.”
His expression darkens further. “You are speaking like Ruslan again.”
Not Russ. Not the businessman.
“You forget,” I ground out, letting the vodka burn a trail down my throat, “that IamaPakhan,under it all. Even if we’ve built,” I gesture around at the mansion, my exile, “this façade.”
Stepan steps closer to the desk. “This façade isn’t something you can throw away,” he says quietly. “Legitimate businesses. Political insulation. Clean money. Stability.” His eyes narrow hard. “You disappear into old vendettas now, and all of that becomes vulnerable.”
I say nothing. Because he’s right.
Lord&Lion is no longer just laundering operations and backroom deals. It’s an empire now. Hundreds of employees, international partnerships. Men under me supporting wives and children because this machine continues functioning smoothly.
APakhandoes not indulge in personal revenge at the expense of his organization. We both know that, but I can’t stop this steam train of fury in my chest, as much as I want to.
