Freya Arsov sits on top of a world of diamonds and sports cars. Her father is a billionaire, head of a world-renown company, her mother, an esteemed lawyer. She attends the most prestigious boarding school in England. She has four amazing best frien...
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ANAKIN KNEW MANY THINGS ABOUT KIROVA.
He knew that the man had no family. His parents had been dead for years. No sisters or brothers. No children. It was just Anakin and him and an entire criminal empire.
He knew that Kirova liked to eat syrniki with varenye, but never smetana. It was a habit that Anakin had somehow picked up from him.
He knew that the man did not drink. He'd never seen liquor touch Kirova's lips.
He knew that the polished, perfect, hammered-in English accent that Kirova carried, the one he'd taught Anakin, slipped off when he was angry, the clatter is his words falling into a harsher Russian edge in his fury. And that when he began to shout in Russian, it was in one's best interest to obey. Obey. Obey. Obey.
He knew that he did not like to lose. Or be outsmarted. He did not like to be threatened. He must always be the one in charge. The world was his game board. Everyone was a pawn in his game. And he always had to win.
But Anakin couldn't let Kirova win another game. He couldn't watch him push the pieces around on the board any longer, couldn't watch them fall at his whim and fancy.
Anakin couldn't fall any farther.
Which was why he was perched on the rooftop of a cafe in the middle of London, his eyes trained on the gilded Jabir Regency across the street.
He didn't think Lottie Sheridan would mind that he'd liedtoher and had taken a cab the moment she was gone. But if she was going to murder him, he'd see to it that Kirova happened to fall first.
Anakin had sat for hours at Lottie's kitchen island, his laptop screen open and flaring before him, fingers incessant upon the keys as he tried to uncover where Kirova was staying in the city. Lottie had stuck her head out of her room, a maroon-tinted lipstick in hand, her braids tied back and thrown over her shoulder as she lifted a brow and said, "Your posture is atrocious."
Anakin had scowled as he failed to fix his stance as he sat bent over the computer. He heard her shake her head and return to her room.
Half of him was waiting for her to pull a gun on him, lock him in ties and wait for Kirova's goons to show up at the door. Another half of him replayed her words to him over and over again.
Anakin had never been taught what it was to be good.
Not really.
He supposed, then again, that you weren't supposed to be taught goodness.
But it did not help when steel was shoved into your hands and blood was left staining your boots from a young age.
Anakin had only ever known Kirova. For a long time. And then he'd know Du Morts. Matthew and Gray. And they were both good men. But was he? Was he a good man?
