had to say. The truth was . . . Mila could have braces and leprosy, and I’d still want to fuck her six ways to Sunday.
I ran a thumb across my lip, coming to terms with the uncomfortable realization while Albert grabbed Sergey by the hair and threw him into the wall. The side table splintered, breaking beneath the banker’s hefty weight.
Less than forty-eight hours. That was how long I had left before making the trade with Alexei. He was the one with a death sentence, but somehow, it felt like I was getting fucked over. The passing minutes mocked me, settling beneath my skin with an edgy feeling I couldn’t shake.
Alexei’s head no longer seemed an adequate trade for Mila. She was worth millions more . . . and the stolen Eiffel Tower. As a tension tightened my body, searing my chest, I pondered asking for exactly that.
It would give me more time. More time to get Mila out of my blood. Though if things continued the way they were, she’d only work her way in deeper. Not to mention, this meeting told me the one thing I didn’t have on my side right now was time.
Albert wiped the wall clean with Sergey’s face. Picture frames fell, and glass shattered on the floor. Any other day, I would have something to say about Albert destroying my office, but all I could focus on was this token of Mila’s she’d left behind and how, soon, it would be all I’d find of her.
It felt like a hot iron was wedged in my ribs at the thought of pushing her into Alexei’s men’s arms. The idea of Ivan being one of them made me grind my teeth. Apparently, jealousy was imagining smashing the other man’s head into a wall. Five times. A sinister feeling spread through me, telling me she was mine—every yellow, sickly-sweet, hearts-in-her-eyes inch of her.
Albert slammed Sergey’s face into the desktop, and blood splattered on my inked hands. The same ones that would separate Mila’s papa’s head from his neck.
She gave me her forgiveness.
I had nothing to give her but vengeance.
I brushed the hair off my sleeve and let it fall to the dirty carpet.
“I met with him!” Sergey finally gasped in Russian, hunched against the wall from the latest punch to the stomach. There was so much padding there, I was surprised he felt the blow.
Staying Albert’s fist with a hand, I waited for Sergey to continue.
“I . . . I met with Alexei,” he repeated, flicking his swelling eyes from Albert to me.
“We got that much,” I drawled and leaned back in my chair. “This meeting of yours better be because you and Alexei are hiding a love affair.”
“What?” He gaped. “N—”
“Because if you weren’t fucking”—my eyes hardened—“it leaves me to assume you were discussing business. My business. So which is it? Are you fucking Alexei, or are you a fucking rat?”
By his expression, I’d put him in an impossible position. He wiped blood from his nose with the back of a hand, his eyes coasting to the exit he would never reach.
“I—we didn’t discuss anything, I swear,” Sergey said. “H-he only asked me some questions—”
“Like who would do the fucking.” I nodded as if I understood.
He grew flustered, sputtering, “No! I didn’t have a choice! He had a gun to my head!”
I raised a brow. “So you were definitely on bottom.”
His bruised face turned crimson. “We didn’t fuck! I’m not gay! Alexei asked me about stocks and liquid assets and to redirect some of your money into an offshore account. Said I’d receive ten percent if I did it.” He was breathless, and when he realized how much he’d given away, his double chin wobbled. “Oh, God.”
I smiled with venom.
Sergey’s shaky hands pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat from his brow. “I can fix this! Just let me fix this. Please . . .” he whined. “I have a family.”
Alexei was going down swinging. Anyone else would assume his master plan was to redirect all my funds so I couldn’t pay my dealers and therefore my men, which would demolish their loyalty and leave me to live a sad, lonely life as a manual laborer. And apparently chimney sweeping was out. But knowing Alexei, this was just one annoying distraction of multiple others that were sure to come.
“Alexei didn’t offer you ten percent,” I stated.
Sergey swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”