Page 66 of I'm sorry, Princess

Andres feeds us the slutiest shit we can sell. Where does he get it all? I’ve never asked, and I don’t care. He’ll tell me when he’s ready, and until then, I’m not about to pry.

“Happy birthday, you sick fuckkkkk!” Lev shouts as he jumps up from his seat, his arms wide open like he’s about to crush me.

Before I can react, he’s hugging me. For four. Whole. Minutes.

He’s fucking drunk.

What the hell happened to the meeting? This was supposed to be business, not a Russian vodka festival. Speaking of which, here comes Lev again, lugging four bottles of vodka like they’re the Holy Grail. One for each of us.

Fucking hell.

The bastard drinks vodka like it’s holy water, and I know where this is going.

I hug him back begrudgingly, but before I can let go, his hand smacks my ass. Hard.

For fuck’s sake.

He’s lucky I love him like a brother, or the walls of this suite would have a fresh coat of red Russian blood decorating them.

“Happy birthday, brother,” Andreas says, stepping forward. His tone is steadier, more measured, but there’s warmth in his eyes. He pulls me into a quick hug, the kind of hug that doesn’t need words to back it up.

Andreas is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real brother.

I’ve always been an only child, and I’ve never wished it to be any other way. I didn’t need anyone growing up, and for the most part, I still don’t. But Andreas and Lev? They’ve earned their place in my life.

“Papa, ya polagal, chto eto delovaya vstrecha,” the little Russian girl says to her father, her tone sharp.

Not sure what the hell that means, but her words carry an edge that’s hard to miss.

Kirill meets her gaze, his expression heavy with disappointment, like he’s just realized he’s wasted her time. “I’m sorry, darling. I forgot today is Lorenzo’s birthday. Ourtradition is not to work on the birthday of someone from the Council but to celebrate it. We’ll talk business tomorrow. You’re flying to Moscow in the evening anyway.”

She looks like she’s biting back irritation, her jaw tight, but after a pause, she nods. Clearly, she knows when to pick her battles.

“Kirill,” I interject with a smirk, leaning back in my chair. “Have you tried teaching her English? It would be more productive if she understood what we’re saying, what we’re discussing.”

Not that I give a fuck about her understanding us. But I respect Kirill, and I enjoy poking the bear when it comes to his daughter.

Ice looks at me from across the table, a rare flicker of amusement crossing his otherwise cold expression. He smirks but says nothing, as always.

The little Russian’s head snaps toward me, her piercing blue eyes narrowing into daggers. If looks could kill, I’d be bleeding out on the floor right now.

“Did you just call me illiterate?” she hisses, her accent sharp and her voice filled with venom.

I stare back at her, my own smirk widening.

Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting her to switch to English, considering she was speaking Russian with her father two minutes ago and didn’t even bother saying hello, just flashed me her middle finger like the brat she is.

“Oh, I assumed you didn’t speak English. My bad,” I say dryly, my tone flat and unimpressed. I have zero interest in diving into some teenage drama with the little Russian.

“I’m more educated than you,” she snaps, her words slicing through the air with venom.

Across the table, I catch Ice grinning, his cold, unshakable demeanor cracking just enough to show amusement. He’s clearly enjoying the show. Interesting.

“Okay, Einstein,” I reply, raising an eyebrow. “Uhm, vodka?” I offer, holding up the bottle with just enough sarcasm to make my point. Honestly, I’m not even sure if she’s old enough to drink, but at this point, I’m too entertained to care.

She glares at me. Again. Fuck, this girl has a death stare that could cut glass.

Kirill, always the diplomat, offers me a soft smile, his voice calm and measured. “Forgive my daughter. She’s very passionate, like her mother.”