Chapter 34

After eight attempts to break into the penthouse suite of Evie's building, in order to spy on their little sleepover, I deem it safe enough to keep my girl and head back home.

Okay, okay, don't look at me like that. I may have also texted Lev and asked for access to the security cameras so that I knew she was safe. That took a lot of convincing.

Ultimately, I had to swear I was not going to look at Evie, and they refused to give me access to the audio, so I couldn't eavesdrop.

Feckin' party poopers, am I right?

But I was finally able to see her face, to see her laughing and free of pain as she and her friends all laid out on a giant couch and drank. They looked so peaceful that I finally felt comfortable enough to leave the underground parking lot of the building and head back to the house. If we were more than a thirty-minute drive away, I'm not sure I could have left.

It helped to know that Alexi, Lev, and Damien were all a five-minute car ride away. That and finding the twenty-six security personnel hired to guard their unit. I was able to slip past most of them, but a few spotted me. Which is also why when I called Damien, his first question was why was I in their building.

Those men of Evie's really are protective.

"I'm home, Daddy B," I sing-song as I step through the foyer and kick off my shoes. Sure enough, a groan comes through from the kitchen.

I laugh as I enter to find a very grumpy looking old man cooking dinner. "If you must insist on calling me that, please save it for when Nessa is not around at the very least."

I put my elbows on the counter and drop my face into my hands, looking up at him and feigning innocence. "And why is that? Do you not want to be her Daddy ?"

His nose wrinkles and shakes his head. I love making him squirm, but I am actually asking for real. A lot of older men enjoy the daddy kink, so I'm curious as to why he seems so opposed.

Boris heaves a long sigh, tossing some chopped vegetables into a pot of what looks like stew. "Evie calls Alexi that, and as much as I would love to dabble in the daddy kink, I cannot unhear my daughter-in-law's voice when she says it."

Okay, that's fair. After careful thought and consideration, that lasts all of fifteen seconds, I say, "Okay. I won't call you that then."

Quizzical eyes look back at me, but I just shrug.

"I'm not here to make you uncomfortable like that. Sure, I love to banter with you. It helps keep me sharp." I give him a wink, which he clearly appreciates. "But in all seriousness, I do have the ability to draw lines with those I care for. And for some strange fecked up reason, I could say I am maybe, just a teeny tiny itty bitsy bitty bit.."

"Kid," he growls.

"Ughhhh, fine, I care about you. At least enough to make this work."

He considers me for a moment before getting back to chopping more veggies.

"Thank you. I feel that same way."

Holy shite. We just had a bonding moment. We just had a bonding moment. Think he would like it if I pointed it out while dancing around the kitchen? I bet he would love it.

As much as I think he would, some dust falls from my hair onto the counter when I lean in to start the new song I just made up.

"Go shower," he barks. "I do not want whatever is in your hair in our dinner."

I stand to my full height with my hand over my heart. "You cooked dinner for me?"

He just shakes his head and I laugh, leaving the room to get some of the insulation out of my hair.

I may or may not have crawled around in the ducts at the tower. But I definitely did not carve a hole into a wall. That was one hundred percent there before I got there, pinky swear.

I quickly shower because the smell of Boris' dinner wafts through the house, and my stomach grumbles through the whole affair. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I was becoming addicted to this man's food.

But how could I not when he cooks every meal from scratch and flavors it at the same level as Gordon feckin' Ramsay?

I rush back to the kitchen just in time to see Boris setting out a tray.

"We are having dinner in the theater room. My team is playing, and I want to keep track of how they do this season."

Boris takes some bowls out of the cabinet and hands one to me.

"Who's your team?" I ask. I don't follow a lot of sports, but one of my old friends growing up plays for Arsenal and it's European football season.

"Chelsea."

Of course, Arsenal's biggest rival. Well, one of them at least.

"Who are they playing?" I add some of the incredible smelling stew to my bowl, holding back from licking my lips over how delicious it looks.

"Arsenal."

That figures. "I've got a mate on that team, so I hope your team loses, no offense."

He shrugs. "The stadium was sold out, so I do not really care. Either way, I get paid."

My jaw drops open. "You get paid? Like you bet on sports?"

Out of all the things he could do with his money, mindlessly gambling it away on a sports team was one of the last things I would have imagined from someone like him.

He laughs, walking us to the theater room. I've only been in here once before. There are two rows of large leather couches in a U-shape facing a feckin' huge screen that apparently had to be delivered in parts.

"I do not bet on sports, Kid."

He presses a button on the side of the couch and a tray pops out for him to place his food on. Rich people are ridiculous sometimes. But I take advantage and do the same. Because why not?

Taking a huge bite I groan. This man knows how to cook. I might actually put on some weight living here. Oh well, being thick and happy is the best way to live.

"So how do you make money then?" I ask with my mouth full as he turns on the game. The clarity of the screen is insane, instantly transporting me to the field; it seems as if I could reach out and touch the green grass.

"I own the team of course."

I laugh and shake my head because I'm not an idiot. "Todd Boehly and Clearlake Capital own Chelsea FC."

I might not know much about the sport in the grand scheme of things, but everyone remembers when the Russian oligarch was forced to sell the team because of some questionable political choices.

Boris just chuckles. "Who do you think owns Clearlake Capital?"

"Not you, two guys co-founded it."

He leans back in his seat, smirking at me. "They may have founded it, but I am the official owner as of two years ago."

I shake my head in disbelief and humor because of course he owns a fecking football club. Of course.

"Is there anything you don't have your hand in?" I ask arrogantly.

"Child trafficking," he says without missing a beat.

Well, shite on toast. Our bonding was going so well until he had to bring that up. Suddenly, I don't feel so hungry. I push my bowl back and relax into the cushions, watching the game mindlessly.

"Nessa said something happened to you as a kid and that's why you are struggling with this so much."

I nod, crossing my arms but unable to look at him.

"All of us are struggling. I just happen to know what it's like to be a kid who was taken from his bed in the middle of the night and locked in a metal box with no idea of what the future held."

He stops eating too, setting his spoon down to turn my way.

"How did you get out?"

"For someone who doesn't like it when people ask things of him, you sure do ask some personal shite."

I huff while keeping my arms over my chest because yes, I am bitter. He talks a big game about all of these terrible things he has done, but he won't tell me any of them.

Assassins are supposed to trade secrets. It's part of the code, I'm sure. And he breaks it all the time by keeping his wrinkled lips shut.

Watch out people, I bet he is really James Bond or something. Although, that's British. Well, whatever the Russian equivalent is then.

Boris watches me for a second before nodding. "Alright, a truth for a truth then."

I squint at him. "I can ask anything I want and you'll answer?"

He sticks out his hand. "Deal."

I shake it, getting excited. I, of all people, get to know one of his deepest, darkest secrets.

"Nessa and her father rescued the kids, although I don't think they ever would have tried if they hadn't taken one of his daughters. She was at a sleepover that night and it might have been an accident that she was taken. Anyway, Nessa saved me from being burnt to death when the truck caught fire."

That may have been a bit much, but what can I say? I'm excited. I've been dying to ask Boris about this, but I knew he would never answer, not until now.

"Alright then, your turn I suppose."

He scratches his short, trimmed beard as I pretend to think.

"Did you have anything to do with the death of Red, Donovan's right hand man for fifteen years?"

Boris' eyes go wide. That's right, I got him.

When Nessa had been on the island for about ten months, I was watching some of Donovan's people. Call me obsessed or whatever. I mean, I am, but we can keep that on the down low.

One night, Red and Donovan got into an argument about Nessa not being ready to take over the Reapers after she got back. Red may or may not have insinuated that he should be the one to take the reins for a bit. He was always whispering in Donovan's ear about Nessa; I hated him. You could see his disdain for her from a mile away.

He used his position to his advantage and came up with new ideas of how to test Nessa. I loathed how weak Donovan was to not see what Red was doing. Quite a few times, I almost killed Red myself. Except someone else beat me to it.

"How did you know?" Boris questions, but I shake my head.

"It's my turn right now, Old Man. Why did you kill him?"

I feel giddy as I witness Boris clenching and unclenching his jaw. One of the telltale signs Alexi has a bad hand, by the way. Beating him at poker was as satisfying as jumping into the pool on a hot day. But how Boris does it is different, almost like he's trying to keep himself at bay.

He's frustrated, but I want him to feel how I felt when I went to kill that bastard only to find he was already dead.

"He hurt her," Boris' fist grips the glass so hard I am concerned it might break. "I had it on good authority that he wanted to do worse. It was also he who asked your former boss to take Nessa out when she almost died in that tower. She does not know that though."

I put my head in my hands. "So you had him killed."

Boris scoffs. "I had him tortured for every bit of information he could give, but the poor bastard happened to die in the process."

That actually sounds about right.

"Did he cry?"

A gleam, one I get to see so rarely, shines in Boris' eyes. "He sobbed like a baby, even pissed himself twice."

That's all I needed to know. "Sláinte," I say as I lift my glass in cheers. "To keeping our girl safe and destroying those who thought they could ever lay a finger on her."

He lifts his glass, and the clink that rings out feels like so much more than two men sitting in a room of luxury making a deal. It is a death sentence to anyone who dares mess with what is ours.