Page 85 of The Wrong Brother

“You have orange juice,” he says mildly, opening the fridge. “And champagne. This qualifies as hospitality.”

“That feels like a stretch.”

“It’s a gift.”

I snort softly despite myself and finally settle onto one of the velvet barstools while he pours the drinks. Outside the windows, it’s raining lightly, Denver covered in a pretty mist. Everything about the suite still feels surreal. The luxury, the danger, the strange domesticity that keeps happening between moments of violence.

Frank hands me a mimosa before taking the stool across from mine. “You’re calmer now.”

“A little.”

“You were deciding whether or not I was a threat earlier.”

“I was deciding if I could take you in a fight.”

That earns another quiet laugh from him. “And?”

“I think maybe. But only if I fought dirty.”

“Excellent answer. Although I’m not one for violence. I much prefer passive-aggressive emails or the cold shoulder.”

Something about Frank makes conversation feel easier than it should. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t probe aggressively the way Rus sometimes does when suspicion gets the better of him. Instead, he watches carefully, like he’s gathering information simply by letting silence exist.

Which probably means he’s dangerous too, in an entirely different way.

Eventually, Frank takes a slow sip of his drink before saying casually, “You know what Ruslan is.”

It’s not a question, but I tense anyway.

Frank notices immediately. “Relax. I am not here on behalf of law enforcement, nor to lecture you. I forget sometimes how alarming normal conversations become around criminals.”

Criminals.Plural.Like he includes himself without shame.

I study him more carefully over the rim of my glass. “I thought you said you were just a businessman?”

“I am. But I know more than I should. And I’m sure some of the money I’ve invested has gone to industries other than fashion.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

Frank leans back slightly against the stool, thoughtful now. “Ruslan built something ugly in some ways. Efficient in others. The world is full of businesses pretending to be moral while doing worse things behind closed doors.”

“That sounds philosophical.”

“It’s age. What he does—reallydoes—it would exist with or without him. The elite feed it. Ruslan has just taken it and made it safer, in many ways. He’s given some of the people involved a voice. And choices.”

I smile despite myself, but the tension inside me eases a little more. Frank doesn’t sound blinded by loyalty; he sounds realistic. Aware of exactly who Ruslan is without pretending he’s harmless.

Which somehow makes me trust him more.

“He came here for revenge,” I say quietly.

Frank sighs into his mimosa. “Yes. For a long time he pretended that getting pushed out of Colorado didn’t bother him, but…”

“You came to stop him?”

“I came to talk sense into him as a friend.” His expression shifts slightly. “Though Ruslan has never been particularly receptive to good advice.”

Relief flickers through me unexpectedly. Not because revenge is suddenly off the table, it obviously isn’t, but because someone else sees the danger here too. Someone else understands that whatever is happening between the brothers is spiraling into something bigger than petty family resentment.