Lap of Luxury (Love Don't Cost a Thing)

And then I realize. He’s done exactly what I warned him not to do and gone to tell our father of our plans. Mikhail doesn’t truly understand what our father is capable of. Only I do.

Jezus Kristus. He’s going to be killed.

I run for the door. Father always liked to spend his mornings at home working, so I get in a taxi and head to his house first. He has a Georgian townhouse in Chelsea, a formidable building on a leafy street. I go around the back way, vaulting over the brick wall from the laneway into the back garden.

I see them through the French doors. They’re in the kitchen. Papa’s brandishing a six-inch, wickedly sharp kitchen knife. Mikhail’s barely reacting, his face blank with shock. Papa lifts the knife and lunges at Mikhail. Roaring with fury, I launch myself at the doors and bust through them in an explosion of glass.

They both cover their faces with their hands, and then one of them turns to me. But it’s not the right one. As Mikhail opens his mouth, our father strikes. A vicious downward blow.

I spring forward, knocking father aside with my shoulder and wrenching the knife out of his hand. But I’m too late. Mikhail collapses onto one knee, his hand over his heart. Maybe he’s already dead. Father’s on the ground, too. He’s not as strong as he used to be and I’m able to hold him down with a foot planted on his neck.

“Damir,” he says, his voice slightly strangled. “Calm down. Be a good boy.”

I take a deep breath, struggling to rein in my anger, one hand clutching the dripping knife. Father smiles, watching me slowly regain myself. A few moments later, I’m serene again. Beside me on the ground, Mikhail is making clutching motions at his chest, his face paper white.

“Do you feel better?” he asks.

I nod. My blood has cooled. I’m in control again.

“Good boy,” father murmurs. “Now, help me up, and we can talk about cleaning up the mess that your brother has made. We’ve missed you around—”

What he was going to say is lost in a gasp as I plunge the knife into his heart. The shock in his eyes is comical.

I lean down to him. “I always wanted to kill you in cold blood.”

I watch the light go out of his eyes and his head fall back, wondering if I’m about to experience guilt or horror over what I’ve down. So far, all I feel is energized from the adrenalin, and pleasure that this bastard is finally dead.

If I ever kill again, I’ll do it like this. In complete control of my mind and body so I can enjoy every second. How wonderful it feels.

Mikhail shows signs of passing out, so I strike him hard across the face. I’m going to need his help with our father’s two-hundred-pound corpse.

“He’s dead,” he said dazedly. “He’s actually dead.”

“Don’t pretend you’re sorry. Come on, help me with him.”

As we’re struggling to roll father into a rug, Mikhail mutters, “I just thought he should know. About us.”

“You need to toughen the fuck up, Mikhail. Show the world who’s boss. Show me who’s boss. I want to know that you can be as cutthroat as I am.”

Mikhail glances pointedly at our father’s body, as if to say, You’ve set the bar rather high.

I grin at him. “All right, maybe not quite that cutthroat. Father was ruining your life. Stealing your fucking soul. From now on, if someone tries to take away what’s yours, you c

ome at them with everything you have. You hear me? Swear it.”

Mikhail pushes the lumpy roll of carpet one last turn, and then hauls one end up in his arms while I do the same. With our father’s body slung across our shoulders, he nods decisively. “I swear it.”

Chapter One

Bethany

Eighteen years later

“Bethany!”

I jump and look up from my phone to see Mikhail Ravnikar standing in his office doorway, glowering at me like Hades at a disobedient minion.

“Yes, sir?” I ask sweetly, slipping my phone into the pocket of my skirt. “How may I help you?”