Chapter 163 165

Chapter 163 165
“The fact that you think you and Ivan are in the same category is hilarious,” Yasha interjects. “The funniest thing you’ve said all night. But I suspect whatever you’re about to say is going to be even more asinine. Please. Keep going.”

Yes. Please. Every word out of his mouth is yet another reason to pull the trigger.

Mikhail clears his throat. “Let me be blunt then: your wife is a gold-digging bitch who jumps to gobble up whatever opportunity lines her pockets the best. When you drive your Bratva into the ground, she’ll come crawling back to me.” He lifts his chin, looking down his crooked nose at me. “She’ll beg for me to forgive her, and I will—for one night. But when I’m done fucking her senseless, I’ll snap her neck and throw her away like the trash she—”

The guard to Mikhail’s right goes down with one shot to the shoulder.

Mikhail ducks down, arms over his head, while Yasha takes down the man to his left. The guards are only wounded, not dead, but they don’t rush back to their feet to sacrifice themselves in front of Mikhail. Neither do any of the other Sokolov soldiers lining the room.

I have a feeling they’ll thank me once he’s dead.

Mikhail is still cowering when I grab him by the front of his shirt and throw him back against the wall. His head bounces off the metal, the vibration shuddering up the wall.

“How is this for ‘face-to-face’?” I growl. “Am I close enough for you, Mikhail?”

His eyes are wide, searching the room for anyone willing to step forward and help him. He comes up empty.

I slide into his line of sight and shake my head. “You wouldn’t have come here without all this backup. You thought they were going to rush in to save you. You thought you were safe.”

“My father will start a w-war over this,” he stammers. “You’ll lose more than it’s worth.”

“More than what is worth?” I ask. “More than you’re worth? Definitely. You aren’t worth the breath I’m spending explaining myself. But if you mean that I’ll lose more than killing you is worth… Well, I have to disagree. Because killing you is going to be fucking priceless.”

I press my gun to his temple. He flinches away. Tears well in his eyes and sweat beads on his forehead. He’s shaking from head to toe like the spineless coward he is and always has been.

“Tell me you’re sorry, Mikhail.”

He looks up at me quickly, a spark of hope in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Ivan. I shouldn’t have come. I’m—”

I shake my head. “No. Tell me you’re sorry for what you did to Cora. Apologize for everything you did to her.”

He hesitates for only a second before the press of my muzzle to his skin reminds him what is at stake.

“I’m sorry I forced her into marriage. I’m sorry I kidnapped her and held her hostage. I’m sorry I kept her from you. I’m sorry I—I’m sorry for everything. I… I don’t know what else to say.”

“That’s enough. That’s more than enough.” I let go of his shirt and he sags against the wall in obvious relief. “I’ll tell Cora those were your last words.”

I let that sit for half a second. Just long enough for Mikhail to understand what is happening.

Then I shoot the motherfucker in the head.

59

CORA

“Maybe I should sit at the head.” I stand back and try to imagine the place setting there. “Do you think it would be too formal to have the whole length of the table between us?”

Niles has endured an hour of my fidgeting and fussing already, so the poor man just shrugs. “Whatever you decide will be fine.”

That’s nice and all, but I’ve never doubted my own decisions more than I have today. Gold or silver cutlery? Should I wear a pantsuit or a dress? Full face of makeup or keep it minimal?

“Your dad doesn’t care about any of that,” Ivan told me this morning before he climbed out of bed. “He is just excited to sit down and get to know you. So let him see you. Be yourself.”

The trouble is, I don’t know who I am.

A month ago, I was a waitress at a cheap Mexican restaurant. I lived in a dinky one-bedroom apartment and spent my limited free time watching reality television until my eyes bled.

Then I was a target, bait, Ivan Pushkin’s fake fiancée, Mikhail Sokolov’s forced fiancée (again), and now… Now, I’m building a life with the man I love. I know how to move forward with Ivan. I know how to leave Alexander and my mother and Mikhail and Francia behind me.

What I don’t have a single fucking clue how to do is merge my past and my present.

My dad was firmly in my past. Where does he fit in now?

My thoughts are spiraling out of control when Niles lays his hands on my shoulders. “If you want my honest opinion, Mrs. Cora, I think you two should take your dinner at the kitchen island.”

“What?” I spin away from the table and face Niles. He’s only a foot away, which is the closest we’ve ever been. He’s always struck me as a rich, formal grandpa. You know he loves you, but he isn’t going to say it. “But you spent so much time getting the dining room ready!”

“I did. And then you spent twice as much time moving it all around and rearranging.”

I drop my face into my hands. “Ugh. I’m sorry. I’m being the worst. You worked so hard and I undid all of it. You’re better at this than I am. I should have just left it the way you had it. Maybe I can move it back and—”

I’m already halfway turned around when Niles stops me. “No.”

I blink at him, too stunned and frazzled to find any words.

“You need to take a deep breath, dear.”

I inhale and exhale slowly. “I’m freaking out.”

“You are,” he agrees. “Which is why you’re going to stop touching everything and trust that it will all work out. You like to eat at the kitchen island, so do that. Do what you are comfortable with and forget about appearances or what anyone else will think. Be yourself. That is enough.”

I’m obviously teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, because Niles’ little speech has me holding back tears.

“Niles, I—just, thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done today. But therapy sessions are probably outside of your job description. You can go. I’ll figure this all out on my own.”

“Anything Mr. Pushkin asks me to do is within my job description.”

It takes me a second to register what he’s saying. “Hold on—did Ivan ask you to help me?”

“He was worried about you,” he says by way of explanation. “And he told me that if you were spiraling, I was supposed to grab your shoulders and tell you to take a deep breath.”

I’d be mad that Ivan thinks I need to be managed if it hadn’t worked so well.

“Did he tell you to give me a pep talk, too?”

He shakes his head. “No. That was my choice. Did it help?”

I smile. “Yeah. It did. Thank you.”

Sometimes, I forget that along with Ivan, Anya, Lev, and Yasha, I also gained an entire Bratva. A family who will support me and take care of me. Including Niles.

I’m almost at ease when the doorbell rings. As soon as it does, I stiffen and my anxiety ramps right back up to eleven out of ten.

Then Niles lays a hand on my shoulder once more. “You’ll be fine, madam. I’ll answer the door and escort him to the kitchen.”

I’m too nervous to do anything more than nod and head in the direction Niles points. It’s my own dad. No one should be this nervous to see their own dad.

Then again, no one should be forcefully separated from their dad and live on the streets as a teenager. But shit happens.