“T shouldn’t have kept my life a secret from you for so long. I only wanted to keep you safe.” Was that why he lied about my death as an infant and cloistered me in Miami? “This should have never touched you, and I am sorry for that. Just know I have always loved you, Mila, no matter what you hear about me.” That was the third time I’d ever heard him tell me he loved me, and it split my heart in half. “Please don’t do this, Papa,” I pleaded. “He’ll kill you.” “Tvan will stay by your side. He cares for you.” An unpleasant tension shortened the oxygen in the air. Ronan ran a thumb across the scar on his bottom lip, and something obscure passed through his eyes, but I couldn’t discern it through the tears. “This is all my fault,” I cried. “No,” Papa said harshly. “It is mine, and I will take responsibility for it.” His tone told me the conversation was over. I bit my lip to hold in a response until I tasted blood. The metallic flavor would normally send my blood pressure diving, but in the horror of this situation, it didn’t affect me. Ronan broke the silence, his expression dry. “This is all a bit melodramatic for me.” I didn’t know what hatred felt like until this moment. A tight ball of destruction that inflated in my chest. “Send me the coordinates for the trade,” Papa said. Ronan remained silent, a contemplative and tumultuous glint in his eyes as he watched me. “What, no gloating? Unlike you, D’yavol.” My stomach dropped, and my lips parted in awareness. Ronan chuckled at my expression. “Don’t look at me like I made it up. I prefer a woman screaming my Christian name when I’m buried deep inside her.” I was wrong. The devil didn’t have red skin and a forked tail. He reigned havoc on Moscow with a dirty mouth, an easy smile, and a snake for a heart. “Do we have a deal?” my papa snapped. Ronan stared at me for many seconds, his cool gaze raising the hair on my arms. “No.”