Page 45 of The Wrong Brother

When I first moved here, everything looked like a good place to settle down. Which I hadn’t felt, ever. Not when my sister was perfect and several years ahead of me, achieving milestone after milestone. In Denver, clean-cut politicians smiled on bannerswhile the city climbed higher and richer every year. I remember thinking I’d finally become someone important here.

Across from me, Ruslan is also restless. Although we handle it differently. I go completely still. Ruslan fidgets.

He has a quarter skating over his knuckles like a magician. Some street trick, an odd thing for a business mogul to have, especially when he’s wearing a dark purple ascot that only makes his blonde-white hair more attractive.

What is it he ran from? And why is he coming back?

I can’t reconcile him.

The man who bought Kate snacks before we left and kissed her head, a quiet word whispered in Russian, should not be the same man whose security team travels armed.

And yet.

The jet itself still feels surreal. Not first-class surreal, although there’s endless leather seating and champagne. Men in suits speaking softly into earpieces while Ruslan reviews documents worth more money than I’ll probably ever see.

I glance toward him now despite myself. He notices immediately, of course.

His pale eyes lift from the phone slowly. “You are staring again.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous hobby.”

I ignore that. “How rich are you?”

One corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Very.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is enough of one.”

I look away before he can catch the discomfort crossing my face. The farther we get into Colorado, the harder it becomes to pretend I accidentally stumbled into this situation. Maybe that first night, but…

Ruslan isn’t just some criminal businessman. He’s something bigger, older. Whatever he does beneath the surface, and I’m still not sure I want to know, there’s a structure to it. Like he’s been doing this for a long time.

People orbit him differently. His employees don’t just respect him; they anticipate him. Fear him. Even the men traveling with us barely meet his eyes directly, except for one who stays silent, a missing canine like a black hole in his mouth.

I force my attention back toward the window.

Anything is better than dwelling on the fact that I’ve voluntarily attached myself to a criminal with a private jet and enough power to make people nervous just by walking into a room.

Unfortunately, the cabin isn’t large enough to completely ignore him. Or his business.

The man with the missing tooth, Stepan, leans forward from the seat across the aisle, speaking quietly enough that I shouldn’t be able to hear. But the jet has fallen into that strange pre-landing silence where every sound seems sharper.

“Denver numbers look cleaner than California's.”

Ruslan’s attention remains on his phone.

“They should.”

“The charity's accounts helped.”

My stomach tightens. Charity accounts?

Stepan shrugs one shoulder. “Three foundations, two youth programs. Nobody asks questions when the money passes through there.”

Ruslan finally looks up.