Page 5

A burned retina is a great method to get your point across.

Smirking, I remember the last time I seared a man’s retina. I didn’t know if it would have blinded him since I put a bullet through his head three hours later.

“You don’t take anything unless I tell you,” Dima snarls at Kuzma.

Grinning, I divide my attention between their show and Genesis. She watches in horror as Dima instructs the other man to hold Kuzma down. Dima kneels beside him, opens his mouth, and shoves the cigar against his tongue.

I guess I underestimated the Russian son.

I offer him a mocking clap for his authority.

Forgetting about Dima’s show of dominance, I notice Genesis tiptoeing toward the door and move in her direction. She stops when I nudge Carlisle’s chair out of my way. His body slumps to the floor, and I step over it.

What a shame.

Carlisle had great potential had he not been such a selfish fuck.

“Genesis, get over here,” I demand, snapping my fingers and pointing in front of me.

She crosses her arms and shakes her head.

I glare at her.

She needs to know I don’t take kindly to disobedience.

Especially right now, when my annoyance level is at a maximum. I spent the past hour negotiating with Yaroslav. The Russians are a fucking headache to work deals with.

I shove my hand into my pocket and extract a switchblade. “For every second you make me count, I’ll cut one of your pretty fingers off.”

She doesn’t move.

“One.” I hold the switchblade out to inspect it. “We’ll count that as your thumb.”

She stubbornly shuffles my way, her deep chocolate-brown eyes meeting mine.

Genesis is drop-dead gorgeous.

She’s also been off-limits to me for years.

But now? She’s mine.

When she’s within my reach, I snatch her wrist and tug her into my chest. For her earlier disobedience, I plunge my hand through her brown hair, tugging her head back. She hisses in pain.

“Fun is over,” I announce to the room, motioning to the doorway and loosening my hold on Genesis’s hair.

“Wait,” she says. “We need to call for help.”

“Help?” Dima scoffs. “For what?”

“My father,” she hisses.

“He’s already dead,” I tell her. “Doubt he’ll resurrect.” What little slack I gave her hair, I take back. “Argue with me, and I’ll test whether you resurrect after I kill you.”

She slams her pretty mouth shut.

We follow the Russians from the office and through the foyer of Genesis’s childhood home. We walk outside into the evening air, and she gasps when her eyes land on the two dead men on the entrance stairs.

Carlisle hired himself a few bodyguards.