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It always does.

When I get down to the foyer, Magda’s face is set as she has a tray of coffee in her hands. “Sir,” she says.

My heart sinks.

Whoever it is, she doesn’t like them and Magda usually doesn’t show that on her face to such a degree.

I follow her into the living room and I go still.

Sergio.

And fucking Stefina with her too big hair and tight clothes. Both of them on my sofa. One looking like he’s off to the fucking opera, the other like she’s ready for a nightclub, already bored by her date and scrolling her phone for another. Fuck.

Magda presses a coffee into my hand first and then leaves the tray on the coffee table. She’s about to leave when I catch her eye and she stops, turns, and serves them.

As she does, I take the moment to fucking breathe.

I expected a report on some of those who make payments always on the edge of late, or trouble with the deal we have with a bratva outfit in Sheepshead Bay out in Brooklyn, New York.

This is worse.

Because while I expected getting out of this wouldn’t be easy, I thought the bastard would give me longer than than twenty-fours after the rescue.

But here he is, with his now bleached-blonde daughter. Last time her hair was dark, now it’s all curls piled high and teased or whatever the fuck women do. She’s pretty enough, maybe even beautiful if you like her kind of curated beauty. The makeup, the clothes, the stacked mile-high shoes, a handbag, that I’m guessing costs the same amount as a small car.

I don’t know enough about the designers and who’s who, but I know money when it’s put in front of me.

But this is over the top and I’m finding my tastes are simple, natural, small and curvy.

Not… this.

She’s a facsimile of the women I’d go to events with, women I’d fuck. But what she’s missing is the true class aspect.

That, or I just don’t like her.

And from the cool expression in her eyes, I’m guessing I’m not her number one choice.

That should make me feel mollified or even empathetic to her. I’m not either one. Stefina will milk this, go with Daddy’s plan. Stefina likes money, prestige, the highlife. Marry me and she thinks she can fuck whoever she wants.

And while she might not have feelings for me, her gaze lingers on my face and drops to my crotch. I get the impression she’d take a ride.

Fuck.

And then there’s Sergio. Coffee now served, he sits back, a triumphant smile on his face.

When Magda hands another cup to Stefina, I toy with a pay raise for her, just because she deliberately took her time in serving them, allowing me to gather myself.

I offer an easy smile and wait for Magda to leave.

It’s a skin-deep smile. Because I’m fucking furious.

Sergio sighs. “Good coffee.”

“Cut to the chase. It’s early, I’ve got a busy day. We have an appointment?—”

“That won’t do, Demyan,” he says, waving a hand in the air. “Time is of the essence.”

My gaze drifts to Stefina, who’s studying the room now, eyeing up various expensive pieces. “The place has good bones,” she says. “After I modernize it, this place will suit me just fine.”