Page 51 of The Wrong Brother

I intend to crack that image open publicly before I destroy it privately.

“Andrei knows you’re in Colorado?” Victor asks.

“No.”

I lean slightly forward at last, lowering my voice just enough that the room suddenly feels smaller around us.

“He will read your article tomorrow morning,” I say softly. “And he will be blindsided.”

Victor swallows. “Understood.”

“Good.”

Silence stretches briefly. Then, because I enjoy honesty when people are frightened, I add calmly: “If the headline disappoints me, Victor, your replacement will have considerably less career potential.”

The man goes pale instantly. Excellent.

Lunch ends twenty minutes later. His plate, a salmon salad, is barely touched.

By the time I leave the restaurant, snow threatens faintly in the clouds above Denver. I know from experience that it won’t come—not yet. But still, I can smell it there, high up above us all.

Security falls into step behind me automatically while the city hums around us in expensive cool-weather jackets and that certain brand of “outdoorsman” that has drawn people here.

Colorado. Still pretending it’s clean.

My phone vibrates before I reach the SUV. It’s Angel, the PR rep I left in California. She’s sharp despite being in her late sixties, a genius on most tech. She doesn’t need to be here to keep up with things.

I ignore the call, knowing neither of us really wants to speak on the phone. A message appears seconds later.

She tells me that Andrei’s campaign is already requesting clarification regarding “family reconciliation rumors.” Angel’s intercepted emails, and they’re scrambling, checking the flight logs from this week and their underground connections on the streets.

A slow smile pulls at my mouth. Perfect. The trap is already working.

I should feel satisfied.

Instead, restlessness keeps prowling beneath my skin like an animal refusing to settle. Revenge sharpens it further ratherthan easing it. The closer I get to confronting Andrei, the more the old version of myself keeps surfacing.

Ruslan. Not Russ.

Not civilized.

And underneath all of it, another truth irritates me steadily: I want to return to the hotel suite.

To Emma.

I almost ask the driver to pull over and bring me anywhere else. It’s dangerous wanting to be around her. I shouldn’t?—

I shouldn’t be staying up at night, tempted to step into the bedroom. See if she’d really put a pen in my throat, or if she’d sit up and look at me with those eyes. Like the sky overhead now—swirling blues and grays, hints of green.

Instead, we continue back to the Four Seasons. When I picture going upstairs now, I don’t imagine strategy meetings or fake relationship planning. I imagine her barefoot on the hotel carpet, glaring at me. I imagine provoking her until she loses that careful control again.

I imagine hearing her laugh unexpectedly in the middle of an argument.

Problematic. Very problematic.

But for the first time in years, revenge isn’t the only thing waiting for me in Colorado.

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