I heard my father walk in and exhaled sharply, schooling my expression into neutrality.

“Yes, Father?”

“We need to stop that bastard Sarkis, Roman, before things escalate. And… the sniper missed the Kalinin brothers.”

Of course. Business as usual—blood, bodies, betrayals. Just another Tuesday.

But the sniper. That was different. My fingers curled inside my pocket. My voice was slow, deliberate.

“You mean Adam? Your little pet isn’t obeying?”

A cheap shot—but worth it. The way Anatoly—no, my father—stiffened, the vein on his temple pulsing? There it was. That fleeting satisfaction.

“I’ll handle it. Later.”

“I’m meeting her here tonight.”

Father’s anger vanished, replaced by calculation. Business over blood—that was Anatoly Sakharov way.

“Don’t screw this up. Marrying her will strengthen business, and as heir, it’s crucial for you.”

Heir.

Not son. Not even successor.

I didn’t respond. The door clicked shut behind him. She was coming tonight. I needed to be in the right frame of mind.

The mansion was quiet. The kind that settled in your bones, made even the sure-footed hesitate. But she wasn’t an intruder. Not exactly. She was supposed to be here.

The woman in my living room. Not fear. Not exactly. She wasn’t shaking or fidgeting, but that grip—that was the tell.

A business deal wrapped in a marriage proposal. Classic Anatoly.

No. If this was going to be my life—my wife—I needed to know what I was dealing with.

So I stood there—the kind of man no one liked behind them unless they trusted him.

She didn’t turn, but she knew. Good. Awareness meant intelligence.

I didn’t sit beside her. The armchair across from her instead. Close enough to catch every detail.

Huh.

Pretty.

What did she know about me? The rumours. My father’s son in everything but the ways that mattered.

She was playing the long game. Alright. Let’s play.

My voice just a little rough from the whiskey.

“You gonna look at me, or are we spending the whole night like this?”