Page 28 of Shadow Waltz

“You're proposing I work with you,” he said finally.

“I'm proposing we work together. My resources, your experience, mutual protection instead of one-sided ownership.” I turned back to face him, letting him see the sincerity in my expression. “I know what it's like to survive in a world that wants to use you up and throw you away, Ash. I'm offering you a chance to be on the other side of that equation.”

“And what makes you think I won't just take whatever you offer and disappear the first chance I get?”

“Because I think you're tired of running,” I replied gently. “And because what I'm offering is a chance to stop being afraid.”

Something shifted in his expression then—not trust, not yet, but the beginning of possibility. “What exactly are you offering?”

“Safety. Respect. The chance to use your intelligence for something other than just surviving.” I paused, studying his reaction. “And eventually, the kind of security that means you never have to depend on anyone's mercy again.”

The last part was what reached him—I could see it in the way his posture relaxed slightly, the careful hope that crept into his ice-blue eyes. Freedom wasn't just escape for someone like Ash. It was the power to never be vulnerable again.

“Why me?” he asked quietly. “You could work with people who haven't been through what I have.”

“Because people who haven't been through what you have don't understand what it means to survive against impossible odds,” I said. “They don't know how to read danger, how to find opportunities in chaos, how to keep hoping when everything looks hopeless.” I met his eyes directly. “Those are rare skills, Ash. And they're exactly what I need.”

My phone buzzed with a message from Carina:

Carina

Sokolov moved his meeting up. He's here now.

I glanced at the text, then back at Ash, who was watching my expression with the intensity of someone reading micro-expressions for survival information.

“Business calls,” I said, moving toward the door. “Think about what we discussed.”

“And if my answer is no?”

I paused at the door, looking back at the young man who'd already managed to disrupt my carefully ordered world just by existing.

“Then you'll discover that luxury prisons are still prisons,” I said quietly. “But I'd prefer cooperation to confinement.”

As I stepped into the hallway and heard the electronic locks engage behind me, I realized that I meant every word. For the first time in fifteen years, I wanted someone to choose to work with me rather than being forced into compliance.

The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like the beginning of something that could either save my empire or destroy it completely.

The conference roomwas a study in controlled intimidation—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a table made from a single piece of black marble, chairs positioned to give me the psychological advantage of height and light. Roman Sokolov sat with his back to the windows, his bulk outlined against the morning sky like a thundercloud waiting to break.

He'd brought two bodyguards, both of whom I recognized from intelligence files. Former Spetsnaz, the kind of soldiers who'd learned to kill with their bare hands before most people learned to drive. But they were standing at attention rather than lounging, which meant Sokolov still viewed this as a business meeting rather than a prelude to violence.

“Roman,” I said, taking my seat at the head of the table with the casual authority that had kept my organization stable through countless challenges. “What brings you to my territory so early in the morning?”

Sokolov's smile revealed teeth that had been capped with gold, a display of wealth that also served as a reminder of his willingness to embrace ostentation over subtlety. “Curiosity, my friend. Last night's auction raised some interesting questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as why a smart businessman like yourself would pay half a million dollars for damaged merchandise.” He leaned forward, his pale eyes reflecting the morning light like chips of ice. “That boy is used goods, Prince. Broken in by previous owners, scarred by experience. What makes him worth more than most people's houses?”

The casual dismissal of Ash's humanity made something dark unfurl in my chest, but I kept my expression neutral. Showing emotion in front of men like Sokolov was like bleeding in front of sharks—it only encouraged them to attack.

“Market analysis,” I said calmly. “Sometimes assets are undervalued due to superficial assessment rather than fundamental worth.”

Sokolov's laugh was like breaking glass. “Come now, we both know this isn't about market analysis. You've never bid on your own merchandise before, never shown personal interest in any particular piece of inventory. What changed?”

The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications that could determine whether this meeting ended in handshakes or body bags. Sokolov was probing for weakness, looking for some leverage he could use to gain advantage in future negotiations.

“Perhaps I'm diversifying my portfolio,” I replied. “Exploring assets with long-term strategic value rather than simple resale potential.”