Page 6 of His Prince (Unexpectedly Twisted #2)

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MIKHAIL

M y eyes are worn, tired from a long day of travel. This type of trip—back-to-back days of flying, multiple stops—isn’t ideal, especially for someone who sleeps as little as I do. It doesn’t help that I swear I saw her last night, looming over my hotel bed, her face bloody, her eyes lifeless.

It’s the worst time for her ghost to make an appearance.

I was raised with the stories of ghosts that haunt the minds of those who are guilty of unspeakable acts. I never understood it because my father and grandfather did terrible things and they seemed unbothered by it all.

But then again, maybe what my grandmother told me is coming to pass.

Maybe Katarina is haunting me after all these years.

Or maybe I’m just exhausted.

I run a hand down my face, scrubbing the images of Katarina from my mind as Dima drives me down the South Florida highway.

I have more important things to focus on. We got a weapons shipment I need to inspect, and I have laundering businesses to check on while in Miami.

Not to mention, a husband waiting at home for me.

One who has messaged me several times over the last four days but hasn’t done so today.

My stomach clenches at the absence of him. It’s been incredibly quiet from the home front this week.

No updates from security, nothing from Nina.

Not that they usually speak to me. We tend to go our separate ways, our lives only tied together because of my parents.

I glance down at my phone, my hand tightening around it.

Angel: Where are you?

When will you be home?

We need to talk.

Please call me.

But today, he hasn’t messaged me, and in the pit of my stomach, I know that can’t be good.

I swipe up on my screen and tap on my security app, pulling up video from the estate. Everything looks intact from the outside, but as soon as I pull up thevideo feed from the inside, I nearly choke on my tongue.

My lips part as I watch Angel serve up dinner for a slew of people—no, those are my men—in my kitchen. My fucking kitchen. My employees.

I zoom in and watch as Titus places an arm around Angel and presses a kiss to his hair.

My eye twitches, my fingers cramping as Angel smiles up at him and moves to grab something from the oven.

I see everyone eyeing him, like he’s some kind of mystical being, like they can’t believe their fucking luck.

I know the feeling. I fucking felt it too.

I put the phone right up to my face and my mouth drops open. Is that pirozhki?

My mouth waters, thinking back to my grandmother who used to make it, before swallowing roughly and setting my phone down, breathing deeply from my nose.

Then I pick my phone back up and see him serving my men my top-shelf cognac, the bottles I had imported from France.

“That little menace,” I murmur as I pull up feed from other parts of the house, my blood pressure slowly rising.

Is that a fucking gold wall? In my office? It shimmers in the low light of the lamps and my jaw ticks.

Why the fuck is Gael standing with a paint roller in the hallway? Why the hell is that wall bright blue? Are those fucking flowers on the table?

A growl escapes me, and Dima glances back at me in the rearview mirror.

“You okay, Boss?”

“No,” I reply, feeling my blood start to boil as I pull up footage from our bedroom and see that the walls are painted a light green, the heavy blackout curtains replaced by sheer fabric, and the rug that used to sit under my bed is now replaced with something colorful he surely bought at Target.

And don’t get me started on the decorative pillows now lining my bed.

Fucking hate those.

Waste of space.

I set my phone down, again breathing through my nose.

“You need me to call someone, make them disappear?” Dima asks, and I feel my eye twitch grow.

“I need to go home.”

“But you have another two days of meetings?—”

“I know,” I snap and then squeeze my thigh tightly, trying to rein in my temper.

I have work that needs to be done, shit that needs to be handled, and my little Angel is home, messing up my life.

If this were anyone else, I’d have Georgiy dispose of them.

But I can’t do that .

I signed a fucking contract.

Yes. A fucking contract. That’s why.

And he’s Angelo Costello.

I let out a long exhale, trying to center myself. When my rage has calmed slightly, I turn my phone off.

I’ll tend to my fucking business, and when I get home, when I see my husband face to face, there will be hell to pay.

My shoes tap out an even rhythm as I walk through the shipyard, Dima right behind me. His looming presence isa small comfort in situations like this.

He’s one of the men I trust with my life, but I only use him when I travel. When I’m home, he’s with his family.

A family he loves who loves him back. I know how important that is, how easily it can be taken from you.

I refuse to be the reason he never sees them.

“What are you thinking, boss?” he asks quietly.

“That I’d rather not be here,” I reply, and he lets out a small laugh.

“Fair enough, but we have to approve the shipment and then we can go.”

He knows how much I hate this shit. And yet it’s my job, my legacy. I have no other choice.

My brother would be a much better fit. And even that’s pushing it a bit. He does run our businesses in many ways. I’m just the brawn behind it. I’m definitely not the brains.

“I know,” I growl and then come to a stop in front of a large shipping container. Two men stand before it, and I sigh. So ominous, so unnecessary. But then again, we’re in the mafia.

Fuck me.

I hate my job.

The doors are pulled open, and Dima and I walk in beside them, seeing the large crates filled with guns, ammunition, and explosives that will send a lot of people to their graves. Not that I care. I’m only in this for the money.

Money I currently have too much of.

“You’re late,” an elderly Chinese man says, his back stooped slightly, his hair thinning, but I wouldn’t underestimate him.

Tao is deadly and a real pain in my ass.

I bite back a sigh and force my face to remain neutral, thickening my accent more than usual and keeping a hand near the bulge of the gun I keep under my suit jacket.

We all play a part here.

“Traffic on the interstate.”

Tao eyes me and then several men move around Dima and me, working a crate open and holding a machine gun up to examine.

“We have everything you requested.”

I’m pissed I have to even be here, but Tao won’t accept a shipment unless I’m here. He likes to be in control. If I had a choice, I’d send someone in my stead.

But I have to do this every few months.

“You know I have to check,” he says, and I eye him in annoyance. Yes, he does. He always checks and I’ve never fucked him over. And in return, he pays me handsomely. The case of cash is handed to me, and I turn it over to Dima to count.

Tao eyes me and I stare back at him, neither of us breaking eye contact until one of his men nods at him and Dima does the same.

The transaction is good, the weapons in working order, and the money accounted for.

“Next time?” Tao says, and I incline my chin, walking out of the shipping container with Dima by my side.

“Thank fuck it’s over,” I whisper, and Dima nods, the two of us walking faster. The sooner we’re in my bulletproof car the better off we both are. I don’t trust Tao. Or anyone really.

As soon as the car starts up and Dima is pulling out of the dockyard, I pull out my phone and call my brother .

“It’s done,” I say, and I hear the sounds of crunching and chewing on the other end of the line.

“Good. I’ll mark that off. Good work.”

“Fuck off.”

He chuckles, and I hang up, leaning my head back against the leather headrest and closing my eyes. A headache is butting up behind my eyes, and I breathe deeply through my nose.

I just want to be someone else for a little while.

Just for a moment.