MATTEO'S POV
The whisky burned down my throat like fire, but it wasn’t enough to numb the rage swirling inside me. I sat on the edge of the velvet couch in the penthouse we were holed up in, staring blankly at the city lights of Moscow beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass in my hand was already half-empty. Or half-full. I didn’t give a damn. I just needed the heat in my chest to calm down—but I knew better.
The moment I heard the buzz of my phone, I didn’t move. I let it buzz again. And again. When it buzzed a third time, something about the insistence grated against my nerves. I set the glass down and grabbed the phone from the coffee table. One new message. No name, just a number. I tapped it open.
I froze.
There she was.
Sophia.
In his arms.
In a pool.
Her head tilted. Her lips… on his. Aleksandr Volkov. That bastard. That manipulative, sadistic bastard. His hand on her waist, her arms clinging to him. Her body… melting.
No. No, no, no.