Page 6 of The Wrong Brother
The house isquiet in a way that makes me nervous. It makes me want to text Yakim and see where my niece is. Usually, I can hear her video calling a friend and chattering away, or bounding down the stairs.
But no; this was planned. A sleepover at a friend’s tonight, so yes, the house feels too quiet. And calling in my head of security isnotnecessary.
A glass of white wine sits untouched on the kitchen counter as I pace, trying to avoid my phone and the messages I have no interest in answering tonight.
Normally by this hour I would be downstairs in the office. Working. Controlling things.
There are shipments to move through Long Beach. Girls to vet before Stepan folds them into the escort side of the business. Numbers to clean through Lord&Lion accounts before auditors start sniffing around where they should not.
Instead, I’m stalking through my home like a restless animal waiting for a woman I met less than six hours ago.
Pathetic.
I exhale sharply through my nose and glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Montecito.
Santa Barbara glows gold at night. It’s a beautiful city; a temporary city. California has never been home, no matter how many years I spend here pretending otherwise.
Colorado still lives under my skin like an old wound. Andrei made sure of that.
My jaw tightens automatically at the thought of my half-brother. Even after a decade, rage sits close to the surface where he is concerned. Too close.
Restlessness is dangerous for men like me.
It means the leash is slipping.
I know exactly what happens when I lose control. Bodies, blood, fear. The old version of me crawls out happily and starts tearing things apart with his teeth.
“Russ Smith” exists because Ruslan Smirnov became a problem.
Too violent, ambitious, and willing to break bones. California has made me a polished businessman.
Except that for the last several days, I’ve felt that old tiger inside of me, stretching.
My phone buzzes again.
STEPAN:The girl from San Diego checked out. Clean enough to onboard. Pretty. Educated.
I stare at the message for a long moment.
Pretty.
Educated.
Like women are products lined neatly on shelves.
Maybe that should bother me more than it does, after all these years.
The escort side of the business pays well because I run it differently than the pigs these girls usually encounter. They have choices, protection, and contracts. Regular medical care and exit options, including retirement accounts. No drugs forced into veins, no blackmail, and most importantly, I don’t go looking for them.
They come to me.
But it’s still darkness, a darkness that I can’t show to the world—one that Andrei used as a threat to get me out of Colorado.
I type back one-handed:Have Natalia interview her personally.
Three dots appear. Then:You’re distracted tonight.
A humorless smile pulls at my mouth. He has no idea. And the last thing I need is my second in command worried that I might fly off the handle.
