Page 5 of No Longer Mine (Rags & Riches #2)

Chapter Three

Dimitri

All I wanted to do was kill someone.

It was fucked up, really. I was about to announce my candidacy as a champion of the people, an anti-corruption crusader, and an economic reformist. And the kicker? My campaign slogan was Restoring Integrity.

Laughable. If anyone knew the truth, they’d choke on their champagne. But this wasn’t a joke to me. It was calculated. Strategic. I needed to distance myself from the dark shadow of the Cristof name.

On paper, our family was pristine, a dynasty that had lasted over a hundred years.

But anyone who dared dig deeper knew the whispers—how it all started, how the money came so easily.

My father had once told me that with enough wealth, the money grows itself.

But that didn’t explain why he never stopped, why he always wanted more, or why he crushed anyone trying to carve out their own piece of the city.

Small businesses didn’t stand a chance. If someone so much as set foot on his turf, he buried them. Figuratively. Literally. Whatever it took to keep his throne.

But even kings could be toppled. And two of his own sons were standing on the edge, ready to push.

I adjusted the sleeves of my suit as Presley chattered behind me.

My personal assistant was young—barely eighteen—and I still didn’t know how she’d landed this job.

She knew her shit, though, even if her doe-eyed expression and soft voice made her seem out of place.

Benson had assured me she was discreet, sharp, and capable of handling anything.

So far, she’d proven him right. Her shoes slapped the pavement as she fought to keep up with me.

Even if it was hard not to notice the… assets she brought to the table.

“Presley,” I interrupted, turning my head slightly. “I wasn’t listening.”

Her jaw tightened, her fingers gripping the tablet she carried.

“Well,” I prompted, raising a brow. “Let me have it.”

She exhaled slowly, clearly suppressing a lecture. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to do my job when you don’t listen.”

I fought back a smirk. “I’ll do better.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “Thank you, Sir.” She cleared her throat, brushing her hair back. “Now, about your campaign announcement. Most candidates choose a business or their hometown as a backdrop. Any thoughts?”

I shook my head. “New York is my hometown, but a business won’t work.”

She tapped a note into her tablet, her brows furrowed in thought. “Do you have a place you frequent? Somewhere that feels… authentic?”

I glanced at her, trying to read the eager expression in her wide eyes. “What are you thinking?”

She hesitated before clearing her throat again. “If you want to appeal to the public as someone who’s not just another elite figure—as the black sheep of your family—you’ll need to look… human.”

Human. The word felt foreign, almost insulting. But she wasn’t wrong.

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling, hating what I was about to admit. “There’s an ice cream shop around the corner. I have a sweet tooth.”

Her face lit up like I’d handed her the winning lottery ticket. “That’s perfect.”

Of course it was. I hated that it was.

I straightened the front of my suit, brushing imaginary lint off the fabric. “What else do we have planned for today?”

“We need to meet with the PR firm to finalize the videos and promotional material that will launch after the campaign announcement,” Presley said, glancing at her schedule.

I rubbed slow circles on my temples, wishing I could trade the meeting for something more satisfying, like breaking someone’s kneecaps. “When’s that?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

For the first time that day, I smiled. “Wonderful. Take the rest of the day off.”

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Really?”

“Yes, I have a lot of pent-up energy that I need to work out,” I adjusted the cuffs on my sleeves as I glanced up at the gym before me.

Alexei told me I was welcome anytime at his friend’s gym and I was about ready to make it mine.

I hadn’t had sex in what felt like forever and since I couldn’t drink myself into oblivion… this was the next best thing.

The sun was finally starting to set when I kicked the door to my brownstone shut, the sound echoing through the quiet space, and yanked at my tie like it was strangling me. My neck ached like hell.

I let out a long breath, my shoulders slumping—then I stopped.

Something was off.

It was the kind of off that made your skin crawl and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

I backtracked to the door, my eyes scanning the entryway. Everything looked the same. The coat rack still held my jacket from earlier, the small table near the door had the same pile of unopened mail. But it wasn’t right.

I realized it when I glanced at the security panel—no blinking light. There was no familiar beep when I’d walked through the door.

My system wasn’t armed.

It was never not armed.

My pulse quickened as my hand instinctively went to the inside of my jacket, fingers brushing the cold metal of the weapon I always carried.

The switchblade was familiar and somewhat of a comfort since I didn’t care for guns or use them.

Slowly, I stepped further into the room, my movements controlled and steady.

The silence pressed in around me, unnatural and heavy.

Someone had been here.

But nothing was out of place.

Everything in my home had its spot, and I was meticulous about it. I could thank Sinclair Cristof for that. Growing up, messes weren’t tolerated—not in our rooms, not in ourselves. Disorder was a weakness, and weakness wasn’t allowed in his house.

As an adult, I’d cut loose when I could, but only when I was certain my father wasn’t watching.

My mother, on the other hand, always made sure to break the rules when my father wasn’t looking.

She’d been the one to hand me a paintbrush when I was a toddler, coaxing creativity out of a world built on control.

Now, my walls bore proof of that rebellion. My personal paintings hung in neat, precise rows—a gallery of my defiance disguised as decor.

Except one was slightly crooked.

My chest tightened as I crossed the room, every step measured and calculated. I yanked the painting away from the wall, half-expecting to find one of my safes open, or worse, emptied.

The safe was still there, the steel door shut. No sign of forced entry.

But something wasn’t right.

I crouched, running my hand along the edges, searching for scratches, smudges, anything that suggested someone had tampered with it. Nothing.

Still, my instincts screamed at me.

Someone had been here.

I replaced the painting, stepping back to scan the room again, my hand hovering near the weapon inside my jacket. Whoever it was, they were careful and precise. I couldn’t tell if they were trying to send me a message or if they were looking for an opening. Or maybe it was something else.