Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

23. Andrik

23

ANDRIK

W hile cursing Mikhail to hell, I slam down my laptop screen. “I knew this was a bad idea. He was meant to return her belongings, not debug her fucking apartment.”

I’m not speaking to anyone, but Konstantine replies as if I am. “He won’t touch her. He only wants to protect her.”

There lies the issue of my jealousy.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to saddle the white horse my brother uses to ride in and save the day. I want to straddle the beast and slay the dragon before rescuing the princess from the tower.

I want the accolades I never waited around for even after my greatest victories.

I want to be the hero of the story instead of the villain for a change.

But I can’t alter a story when not even half of it has been written.

My narrative is still in the plotting stage. There are many pages left to comb through. So as much as I want to skip to the alternative ending I never saw coming while suffering through a prologue no child should have to face, I need to give this tale the chance it deserves.

I must see it through—even if it kills me.

“Reestablish surveillance at the earliest convenience. I want eyes on Zoya twenty-four-seven.” By I, I mean I . “Make sure I am the only person who has full access to her surveillance feed. The fewer people aware she is being monitored, the less likely the feed will be infiltrated.”

Konstantine lifts his chin, his eyes never moving from his laptop screen. His inability to maintain eye contact makes sense when he asks, “And Mikhail? What do you want me to do with him?”

It takes a long time for anything, excluding death, to enter my head, and even then, the plan is indicative. “I will deal with him.”

I don’t know how or when, but I’m sure we will eventually come to a head over his inability to follow orders.

I’d just rather it be when he’s not grieving.

Even my strength struggles to reach its full potential when my head is buried in the remorse of my past, hence my lack of involvement in organizing surveillance for Zoya.

It is easier to deny your every want when it isn’t being flashed in your face.

One sniff of Zoya’s scent in her apartment and I once again wanted to backtrack on every decision I’ve ever made.

I would have if I hadn’t been called by my family’s physician minutes after tracking down the thug who mugged a woman by knifepoint before adding Zoya’s minimal belongings to his takings.

I’m needed at home.

If I weren’t, my head would already be buried back between Zoya Galdean’s legs.

My cock’s twitch of conformation is responsible for my next demand. “I want our team based out of Myasnikov until informed otherwise. What happened this morning cannot occur again.”

“Okay,” Konstantine says before he shocks me by questioning my directive. He usually never seeks confirmation of my orders. He follows them to a T, conscious of the downfall if he were to stray from them for a single second. “But can I ask why?”

“No, you can’t.”

I’m not being arrogant. I honestly don’t know why I’m suddenly mindful of Zoya’s security. I would like to blame the low-ranking gangster whose death will spread caution across the globe of the consequences of messing with her. Ethics won’t allow it.

I want to protect her as desperately as I want her to scream my name, but both tasks will be difficult to achieve if I don’t bridge the three thousand miles between us.

Chelabini was my hometown growing up, but last month was the first time I’d been there in years. I have too many skeletons there, too many ghosts.

I refuse for Myasnikov to be stained in the same manner.

“I will instruct Anoushka in the morning to start arrangements to transfer our home base. We will join you in Myasnikov at the earliest possible convenience.”

Stealing Konstantine’s chance to reply, I exit my chauffeur-driven ride seconds after it pulls to the entrance of one of my many palatial mansions. My brisk departure saves the driver from shutting down the engine, which means Konstantine can begin an immediate departure to Myasnikov.

Help flounders when they spot me coming. I’m not a kind man, and their scramble to act busy announces I am not afraid to show this.

“Andrik,” a familiar voice greets a second before she commences removing my coat.

Anoushka was the longest serving nanny to the Dokovic clan before I promoted her to my head of staff. Her title and longevity in my inner circle give her the right to call me Andrik. Only those closest to me are privileged, and they’re mindful it isn’t to be used anywhere that could have it overheard.

The remembrance announces my car’s weave through the manicured lawns of my mansion had the effect I was aiming for.

It is just Anoushka and me in the entryway of my home.

“Where is my father?”

Anoushka shakes out my coat to rid it of the sprinkles of rain I gathered during the short trek from the driveway to the main house before she hangs it in the coat room. “With Zakhar in his room.” Her smile is gentle. “Zak has been asking for you all day.” The drop in her smile softens the lines sprouting in the corners of her glistening eyes. “You were gone longer than expected.”

“I had business to take care of.”

Anoushka dips her head in understanding.

The witch outstaying her welcome doesn’t.

“Business where?” Dina saunters into the foyer, nursing an overzealous glass of gin. “Your secretary said she hasn’t seen you since your meeting this morning.” She spins the watch too large for her rake-thin wrist until it displays the time. “That was over thirteen hours ago. What could possibly take that long to finalize?”

“I can think of a number of things,” I mutter, my tone hinting at just how deprived she makes my thoughts. “But none I need to discuss with you.”

She scoffs but doesn’t dare to continue badgering me. It won’t end well for her, and her wish to remain at her daughter’s side as negotiated in our contract reminds her of that fact.

After wordlessly cautioning Arabella to bring her mother into line, I head for the west wing.

Yes, my home has wings.

No, I will never have the need for the thirty-plus rooms they house.

The grandeur of my home is part of the gimmick I am forced to portray.

It is a prop—as are the people I invite inside. They’re all part of the plan. Only one person is excluded. The little boy swamped by a hospital bed he hasn’t left in months.

I had originally intended to make him part of my ruse, but just like Zoya, he imprinted himself on my soul in less than a heartbeat, so he will be protected just as fiercely.

“I might have believed you were sleeping if your nose wasn’t twitching like a rabbit,” I whisper in Russian. “Sweets are like hearts. Designed to be devoured. So why don’t you stop pretending to be asleep and see what I brought home for you.”

Zakhar’s lips twitch into a smile before he slowly opens his eyes. There’s so much pain in his baby blues, so much hurt, but he smiles large enough to showcase his wobbly tooth is holding on by a thread.

You’re not the only one, tooth.

“How is your tooth still in your mouth? I told Anoushka to put concrete in your cookies. It should have yanked it straight out.”

My eyes shoot to the side when a low voice mutters, “He’s been too unwell to eat.” My father moves out of the shadows he was hiding in, his agility too silent for a man of his size. “He’s barely keeping down water.”

I try to make out his comment didn’t dry my throat too much for me to speak. “That’s because it’s water.” I shift my eyes back to Zakhar. “Real men don’t drink water. We drink vodka from goblets carved out of our enemy’s bones.”

“Like our ancestors did,” Zakhar adds, playing his part of the ruse we’ve perfected over the past two weeks.

“That’s right.” I move to the bar a notable Russian is never without, where I pour from a crystal decanter filled with filtered water instead of the alcohol my veins are currently demanding. “Water won’t give us hairs on our chests and our…” I finalize my reply with an arched brow.

Zakhar giggles like he’s not on his deathbed when I pull a face like Anoushka is two seconds from swatting the back of my head.

I hand him one of the glasses I filled and clink it with mine.

“To Russia,” I cheer, my full-blooded accent on display.

“To Russia,” Zakhar mimics before he swallows barely a mouthful.

“More, Zak. You don’t want the one measly little hair Mikhail has on his chest, do you?”

The weight on my shoulders slackens when he fires back, “No. But I don’t want to be a gorilla like Па, either.”

“A gorilla? You think Pa is a gorilla?” When he nods, I mimic the slow stomp of a ridgeback before tickling his ribs. “He’s only a gorilla to make sure his hands are big enough to tickle your ribs until you pee your pants.”

He bucks and rears like it’s not taking everything he has to respond to my tease before he shouts for a clemency I rarely give. “Mercy! Mercy!”

I’m not usually a man who offers leniencies, but since it is for him, I pull back my hands before telling him to finish his “vodka.”

“We need you as fit as a fox...”—we lock eyes over the rim of his glass—“and as hairy as one too.”