Page 111 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

The door opened.

Light spilled in, pooled on the floor in front of my feet.

A hunched shadow stretched across it, lengthening slowly until it stopped right in front of me.

Gary crouched down, hands on his knees, head tilted as he looked at me. That smile pulled at his mouth—the one I'd known since I was a kid.

He held a cup of water. The rim was chipped. Thin steam curled off the surface.

"Thirsty? Have some."

I didn't look at the cup.

I looked at his face—the face that had only ever meant disaster and loss.

His hair was thinner than it had been a few years ago. The top of his head was almost completely bald, a few strands combed over from the sides. New wrinkles piled up at the corners of his eyes. But his gaze hadn't changed.

Always calculating. Always evaluating. Always hunting for the next thing he could trade away.

"It was you," I said. My voice was hoarse from not drinking, but every word came out clear. "You brought them here."

He laughed softly. The smile deepened, carving lines around his eyes.

He reached out and patted my knee, like he was soothing a disobedient dog.

"Anna, don't blame your old man. I didn't have a choice. Those guys found me and said if I didn't cooperate, they'd throw me in the Hudson. I'm too old to run. I had to do what they said."

"So you sold me to them."

He stood, paced a few steps across the room. His shoes crunched over broken glass on the floor.

He stopped with his back to me, then turned his head to look at me. "You know who Ivan is? He's the Pakhan of the Bratva. He's got blood on his hands. Hundreds of killers working under him. You think keeping you locked up at home was what—imprisonment?"

He let out a short laugh, bitter and mocking. "He was protecting you. He didn't want anyone to know he had a weak spot. Didn't want you discovered and used against him. That's what you are to him—a weakness. A weakness that needs to be locked away."

He tilted his head, watching me. Waiting for my expression to crack. Waiting for fear, collapse, some defeated moment to prove he'd won.

But I didn't give it to him.

I leaned back against the chair, met his eyes, waited for him to burn through that little spark of satisfaction, waited for his smile to stiffen, waited for the cracks to show.

Then I spoke. "You done?"

His smile faltered.

"If you're done, you can leave."

The expression on his face shifted.

That soft layer peeled away like torn paper, revealing the cold, tight face underneath.

He didn't say another word. He turned and shoved the door open, walked out. The door slammed shut behind him. The lock clicked into place.

I listened to his footsteps fade, then slowly unclenched my fists.

Ivan was the Pakhan of the Bratva.

No wonder he didn't want to tell me. He was probably afraid I'd be scared.