But that’s not the point.
The point is that this woman is still breathing.
I gave Kir one simple task—one—and my f**k-up of a son couldn’t even manage that.
What the f**k is Jillian Pierce still doing alive?
I specifically told him to handle it. The reporter is sniffing too close, asking questions about bones that have been buried for eighteen years. The right questions posed to the wrong people could unravel everything I’ve spent half my life building.
And my son, my heir, my blood—he failed.
My fingers tighten on the newspaper until the pages crumple. The driver glances in the rearview mirror. “Where to, Mr. Lazarev?”
“To the office,” I snarl. “I need to have a word with my son.”
The elevator deposits me on the fortieth floor. My anger grows with every step as I eat the distance
