Page 131 of Venomous Desires

“Your father.”

I raised a brow. Typical Kyle. No pleasantries, just the facts. I rolled my eyes and snatched the phone from him, pressing it to my ear.

“Padre…” I started, expecting the familiar gruffness of my biological father.

Instead, a cold, deep voice slithered through the line. “???.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickled, a reaction I despised. This man—that man—always managed to dig under my skin, rip me open, and lay me bare in ways I couldn’t control. I hated that about him.

I knew what was coming. So I lowered mine, masking the astonishment simmering beneath my skin.

“Father…” I forced the word out, the respect drilled into me by years under his thumb, by the cold-blooded lessons he’d etched into my soul. Alexei Volkov. The man who shaped me, molded me into the weapon I was. His blood didn’t run in my veins, but his darkness did. And that was far worse.

I enjoyed it.

The storm inside me churned, threatening to spill over, to consume everything in its path. But I welcomed it. This was where I thrived, where I belonged. In the darkness, where blood and power ruled.

I leaned against the wall, my grip tightening around the phone. I could almost feel Alexei’s icy gaze through the line, dissecting me, waiting for the slightest crack. But there was none. Not today.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, the words more a statement than a question.

A twisted smile curled my lips. Busy didn’t even cover it. “Just tying up loose ends.”

A silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, calculating and planning. Always planning.

“Don’t disappoint me, son.”

His voice cut clean through me, leaving behind only one certainty—you did not fail Alexei Volkov and live to regret it.

“I never do,” I replied, my voice as cold as his. And I meant it. Failure wasn’t an option for either of us.

“Where are the shipments?”

His voice sliced through the phone, but satisfaction settled in my chest. He didn’t mention the Donatello incident.

“They’re on schedule,” I replied.

“Come back home. Your mother’s missing you.”

My jaw clenched so hard I thought I’d crack a tooth. Now she missed me? The same woman who could barely look at me without flinching, as if I were a monster that had crawled out of an asylum.

She played the concerned mother well, but we both knew the truth. She preferred me buried in the shadows, where I couldn’t stain the rest of her perfect life.

“I’ve got unfinished business here,” I said.

“Two days.” That was it. No room for negotiation.

The man knew exactly which chain to yank. He’d drag me back whether I walked willingly or not.

I opened my mouth to protest; to spit out the venomous retort perched on the tip of my tongue, but then I thought better of it.

Arguing with him was like wrestling with a snake—no matter what, you’d end up strangled. If he wanted me in Italy, he’d have me there, no question. And if I dared to refuse, he’d show up at my doorstep by morning, mother in tow, playing the perfect, doting parent. What a joke.

But that wasn’t what had my blood boiling. No, it was the thought of being back under that roof, surrounded by the ghosts of my past, the whispers of my failures.

The darkness there wasn’t just a part of me; it was all-consuming, a black hole that would swallow me whole if I let it.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? To remind me who held the chains. I vowed on Morozov’s blood.