Page 66 of The Last Dance

Lin nodded, took the weight with a smoothness that suggested he’d rehearsed this in every possible permutation. Iren gave me a look—brief, almost an apology, then gone. Lin steered him up the stairs, not quite dragging, not quite carrying. When they reached the landing, Iren didn’t look back.

I faced Sasha. She stood her ground, arms folded. She’d traded the usual scent for something sharper, a perfume that stung the back of my throat. Her dress was a slit up the side, expensive and calculated, and her legs were braced as if the carpet might try to throw her.

“You used the blind spot he found,” I said, voice quiet. “The gap in the east tree line. You mapped it before you left. The day you moved out, you had a drone run the grounds twice, then uploaded the footage to a folder titled ‘hedge fund.’” I didn’t give her time to flinch. “You sold out a nineteen-year-old to a man who thinks owning a soul is a form of mercy.”

Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not even a denial. Just the flicker of a tongue wetting dry lips, a show of nerves she’d never intended to reveal. “I didn’t know he’d—” she started, but I cut her off.

“You didn’t care,” I said. “That’s the difference.”

She blinked, once, and the mask snapped back into place. “You act as if you’re any better,” she said. “As if locking him up in this mausoleum is a favor.”

“At least he’s alive in my mausoleum,” I said.

She exhaled, sharp and small. “My father gave his life for you. Everything you have—every breath, every dollar, every man who bows when you enter a room—was bought with his blood. I only ever asked for what was promised.”

“Your father asked me to keep you safe,” I said. “Not to turn the estate into a revolving door for your personal vendettas.”

She stiffened. “You always think you know best. That’s your tragedy, Vadim. You believe the rules don’t apply to you. But in the end, you’re just like every other man—selfish, blind, doomed to repeat the same failures until someone finally puts you down for good.”

I took a step closer, closing the distance to three feet. “Do you think I don’t know that?” I said. “Do you think there’s a single night I don’t rehearse my own murder, just to make sure I know which direction to fall?”

A pause. She broke eye contact, looked at the floor, then the stairs. I wondered if she was counting the seconds until I hit her, or until I forgave her.

I’d never done either before.

I let the silence linger. Then, softer said, “The promise I made to your father wasn’t about you. It was about the debt. The debt is paid.”

She looked up, and for the first time in months, I saw what was underneath: not anger, not entitlement, but a raw, skinless grief. “You think he’d be proud of this?” she asked. “Of you?”

I thought about it. “I think he’d be proud I lasted this long.”

She laughed, but it came out half-sob. “You’ve made your decision, then.”

“I have. I won't kill you for what you did to Iren, but I won't take care of you anymore either. I've paid my debt to your father. Now, you are on your own. There will be no more money unless you earn it yourself. No luxury life, no villa, no prestige. I am sending out word to everyone that you are no longer under my protection. From this moment on, you can no longer use my name, my people, or any of my properties. Whether you live or die doesn't matter to me anymore. We're done."

“My father died for you,” Sasha snapped. “I have every right—”

"You lost that right when you hurt Iren,” I snapped right back, raising my voice to her for the very first time. “And, if you ever appear in front of me, I will assume you are coming to me to die, and I will accommodate you.”

She straightened, set her shoulders, and pulled her purse off the foyer table with a motion so practiced it was almost beautiful. “Where am I being sent?” she asked in a voice so calm it surprised me, and I didn’t get surprised.

“I’m sending you back to London, permanently,” I said. “Yuri has the details.”

She gave a small, brittle nod. “I want a clean break. No more legacy accounts, no surveillance.”

“You can have the break,” I said, “but there will always be surveillance.”

She almost smiled. “You’ll regret this, you know. He’s a kid. How long do you think he’ll be happy with a decrepit old mobster? He’s half your age for fuck sake.”

I was aware, but I’d hold on as long as he let me.

Yuri appeared, silent as death, at the far end of the hall. She walked past me, close enough I caught the warmth of her skin through the silk. At the door, she paused, turned back. “Do you love him?”

The question hung in the air like a rope.

I didn’t answer.

She smiled for real, then, just a tiny upward curve. “You should try it sometime.” Then she was gone, trailing perfume and tragedy out into the night.