Page 23 of Sadistic

The penthouse door opens without a knock—only two people in the world have that privilege.

"You always did like your games," my mother says the moment she walks through the door.

She sweeps into the room like she owns it, which technically she does—the hotel's one of her properties.

Auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, wearing one of her own designs that probably costs more than most people's cars.

She kisses my cheek, then steals my coffee.

"Hello to you too, Mum."

"Don't 'Mum' me when you're playing puppet master with some poor girl's life." She eyes the surveillance photos with distaste. "This is beneath you."

"This is necessary."

My father enters behind her, dark suit impeccable as always, presence filling the room the way only a true Bratva boss can.

Where my mother moves like silk, my father moves like a blade—precise, dangerous, purposeful.

"Surveillance reports?" He picks up a photo, studies it. "You always were thorough."

"I learned from the best."

He almost smiles.

Twenty years in Ireland hasn't softened his accent. "The Valhalla daughters. I remember them at fifteen—the quiet one and the fierce one. You chose well."

"I chose the fierce one."

"Of course you did." My mother reclaims her spot on the sofa, crossing her legs. "Heaven forbid you pick someone easy."

"Easy is boring."

"Boring is stable," my father counters, joining her.

They move in sync even after thirty-three years—a united front despite their very different worlds. "We need stable right now."

Mikhail closes the balcony doors, giving us privacy. He knows when family business requires complete discretion.

"Tell me about the prospects," I say, though I already know. Information is power, but sometimes you let others think they're informing you.

"Erik Thorsson and Anders Holmberg." My father's jaw tightens. "Found this morning. Erik was beaten to death—baseball bats, from the look of it. Anders took two bullets to the back of the head, execution style."

"Ages?"

"Twenty-two and twenty-four."

Boys. Just boys playing at being men, and now they're meat in the ground because the Culebra cartel wants to make a statement.

"This is why we need the marriage moved up," my mother says, practical as always. "The Raiders of Valhalla are hemorrhaging people. Without this alliance?—"

"Without this alliance, the cartel moves in and Florida becomes a war zone." I move to the window, watching the city below. "I know."

"Do you?" My father joins me. "This isn't just about your obsession with the girl?—"

"Careful."

He continues like I hadn't spoken. "This is about survival. Ours and theirs. The Italians are gone. The Mexicans are scattered. If we don't solidify power now?—"