I didn’t know about my papa’s transgressions—this secret, terrifying life he led—but I couldn’t just forget the good father he always was. The one who braided my hair as a child in place of the mother I never had. The one who read me bedtime stories, kissed me on the forehead, and called me his little angel.

“Mila.” It was a weary sigh over the line. He didn’t know I was listening, and regret softened his voice.

“I’m so sorry, Papa,” I sobbed.

Ronan’s eyes narrowed.

“I shouldn’t have kept my life a secret from you for so long. I only wanted to keep you safe.”

Was that why he lied about my death as an infant and cloistered me in Miami?

“This should have never touched you, and I am sorry for that. Just know I have always loved you, Mila, no matter what you hear about me.” That was the third time I’d ever heard him tell me he loved me, and it split my heart in half.

“Please don’t do this, Papa,” I pleaded. “He’ll kill you.”

“Ivan will stay by your side. He cares for you.”

An unpleasant tension shortened the oxygen in the air. Ronan ran a thumb across the scar on his bottom lip, and something obscure passed through his eyes, but I couldn’t discern it through the tears.

“This is all my fault,” I cried.

“No,” Papa said harshly. “It is mine, and I will take responsibility for it.”

His tone told me the conversation was over. I bit my lip to hold in a response until I tasted blood. The metallic flavor would normally send my blood pressure diving, but in the horror of this situation, it didn’t affect me.

Ronan broke the silence, his expression dry. “This is all a bit melodramatic for me.”

I didn’t know what hatred felt like until this moment. A tight ball of destruction that inflated in my chest.

“Send me the coordinates for the trade,” Papa said.

Ronan remained silent, a contemplative and tumultuous glint in his eyes as he watched me.

“What, no gloating? Unlike you, D’yavol.”

My stomach dropped, and my lips parted in awareness.

Ronan chuckled at my expression. “Don’t look at me like I made it up. I prefer a woman screaming my Christian name when I’m buried deep inside her.”

I was wrong. The devil didn’t have red skin and a forked tail. He reigned havoc on Moscow with a dirty mouth, an easy smile, and a snake for a heart.

“Do we have a deal?” my papa snapped.

Ronan stared at me for many seconds, his cool gaze raising the hair on my arms. “No.”

“Nyet?”

“I think I would like to play with my new pet for a while first.”

I held his stare, unwilling to show him the dread inside. Thankfully, he couldn’t see the cold sweat beneath my clothes.

Papa’s teeth were clenched. “Touch her, and—”

“You’ll cut off my cock and shove it down Nadia’s throat,” Ronan finished, bored. “I heard you the first time.”

Nadia?

The devil had a girlfriend. I wondered if he kept her locked in his basement or if she was the opera singer who played Liza.

“If you show up in Moscow before I invite you, I’ll ship your daughter’s body parts to your home in FedEx boxes. Ponimayesh?” Understand?

“I’ll send you back to hell for this, D’yavol.”

“Can’t wait,” Ronan replied. “We’ll talk soon, Alexei.”

He ended the call before my papa could respond. It rang instantly. He turned it off and fixed me with a heavy stare that chafed my skin.

“So loyal to your papa,” he said coolly, though his eyes were darker than night. “Even after what I showed you?”

I didn’t even want to think about that boy and what was done to him. It turned my stomach and made me question everything. But I wasn’t given time to process it all, and right now, I had two options: the devil, or my father. The choice was easy. My gaze burned with that conviction.

His jaw ticked. “I guess you have more of your mother’s blood in you than I thought.”

I hated what he insinuated, that she was anything other than the honorable mother who died before I knew her. He was a liar. He was lying from the first moment I met him.

My body grew taut as he walked toward me. His shadow was a living presence that reached into my chest and stole the breath from my lungs.

“You don’t have to do this,” I told him.

“Wrong again, kotyonok,” he said, circling my chair. “Your papa will pay for what he’s done.” I exhaled as he tugged my head back by my ponytail, his voice hardening. “He’ll fucking sweat over what I’m doing to his precious daughter. And when I’m finished with you, his head will decorate my mantel.”

I swallowed. “You’re sick.”

He rubbed a thumb over my lips, spreading the blood from where I bit myself across my cheek. “We all have our vices, don’t we?”

My eyes shone with disagreement.

“Malen’kaya lgunishka,” he drawled. “I haven’t forgotten how fast you came onto me—and all over my hand, for that matter. You said so yourself, if it wasn’t with me, it would have been with another.” His grip tightened in my hair. “Albert, maybe.”

I felt sick.

Degraded.

Weak.

I didn’t know if I could survive this.

“Now the formalities are over, shall we give your papa a preview of what’s to come?”

I blinked when his phone moved in front of us.

The devil was sardonic and tech-savvy. My neck ached from his ruthless grip on my ponytail as he posed us for a twisted selfie.

“Smile for the camera.”

Click.

machiavellian

(n.) wicked, villainous, deceitful

“You could have at least tried to make an effort,” Ronan said like he was disappointed in me, examining the photo he took.

This man was disturbed.

The devil walking the streets of Moscow.

He put his phone in his back pocket and dropped to his haunches in front of me. Untying the ropes on my wrists, he absently ran a thumb over the raw skin beneath. Those little caresses convinced me only yesterday he cared for me, but maybe that warmth was just a secret villains passed down to one another as a means of drawing their prey in before stomping their hearts beneath their feet.

“Is your papa as demented as you?” I asked tonelessly.

He looked at me, amused. “Not sure. Never met him. But if it makes you feel better, my mother was just as sadistic as yours.”

My eyes flashed with resentment, but his expression and the fact he was close enough to slap me again held my response in. His gaze contained a warning within before he rose and turned off the amateur porn on the TV.

I rubbed my wrists and stood, wincing at the ache in my muscles, and watched him cautiously as he leaned against the dresser, his attention on his phone. Probably sending that stupid photo to my papa.

He could have put a lot more power into that slap earlier; a red handprint on my cheek would have made a better selfie. I wasn’t so convinced he wanted to hurt me. Maybe I could make him see reason. Maybe I could get out of this with my soul intact.