Dirty Damage: Chapter 49

The ocean calls to me.

It would be so fucking easy to disappear into that endless blue horizon. Nothing but salt air and ghosts for company.

No complications.

No responsibilities.

No betrayals.

But I didn’t build an empire by running from my problems.

The uneven tap of expensive Italian leather on marble announces Boris’s arrival before he appears. No doubt his bootlicking assistants warned him I was waiting in his office. Probably pissing themselves as they delivered the news.

I turn away from the window as he sweeps in with his trademark arrogance, a calculated smile stretched across his face. The sickly pallor from our last board meeting has been replaced by his usual ruddy complexion.

He’s looking far too pleased with himself.

“Boris.” I keep my voice flat, controlled.

He gives me a wide berth as he circles toward his desk. “Nephew, what a nice surprise. Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Perhaps something stronger—vodka?”

My lip curls. “How about an explanation?”

He lets out an affected little laugh as he settles into the leather throne behind his big, antique desk.

We both know it’s just for show—the only thing Boris does at that desk is stroke his ego.

“Really, Oleg. Ask the questions you actually want answers to. Stop wasting both our time with this passive-aggressive dance.”

One clean shot to that smug face would knock him out cold. A little extra force and the sorry bastard might never get up again.

The thought is far too tempting, especially with the rage still burning in my gut from this morning’s conversation with Artem.

I force thoughts of Sutton away.

Not now.

“You chose to betray the company, the family, your brother’s legacy—all for what? For power?”

“For what’s rightfully mine,” he hisses, dropping the fake smile. “For what I built and maintained after your father’s death.”

“You built nothing.” The words come out as a growl. “You just took credit for his work.”

Boris waves his hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’ve always been more brawn than brains. An arrogant child who feels entitled to Daddy’s empire.”

“I feel entitled to nothing,” I spit. “I worked for everything I have. That surveillance system⁠—”

“—is vanity!” He cuts me off. “Nothing but an ego trip. Did you really think I would sink millions into a venture concocted by the same reckless fool who got his sister killed? The same tragedy that drove your father to an early grave? You might as well have killed him yourself.”

Ice spreads through my veins, freezing the rage. The accusation has always lingered between us, unspoken.

I thought I was ready for it.

I was wrong.

“What happened on that boat was an accident.”

“It was carelessness,” Boris snarls. “And it cost two young women their lives. I wasn’t about to let you apply the same brand of carelessness to the company.”

“So you decided to apply your own brand of idiocy instead?” I stalk closer to his desk. “Explain the logic. How is throwing good money at the Martineks’ dead business any different from what you claim is a bad investment?”

“The Martineks represent old money, boy. Real power. Their influence extends far beyond what we can touch. I may have lost Pavlov Industries millions today, but I’ve ensured its survival tomorrow.”

“As the Martineks’ puppet?” I lean forward, hands braced on his desk. “Or does that not matter as long as you get to pretend you’re still relevant?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “The Martineks offer more than money—they offer stability. Unlike you, they aren’t vulnerable.”

“How exactly am I vulnerable?”

He emits a sharp, grating laugh. “Look no further than your own bed.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Merely an observation. You’re the one who put yourself at risk the moment you decided to stick your cock in that whore.”

One sweep of my arms sends his pretentious desk ornaments crashing to the floor.

Boris shrinks back in his chair, knuckles white on the armrests.

Good. Let him remember who he’s dealing with.

“Choose your next words carefully,” I say softly.

“Don’t blame me for this,” he mutters, eyes darting to the door. “The Martineks used the oldest trick—a pretty face and a nice rack. Or did you think Drew Anton and Sutton Palmer stumbled into your life by accident? Did you really think those little boudoir photos went to the whole company by accident?” His confidence grows as he watches my reaction. “And you—a man who prides himself on reading people—fell for it completely. Hook, line, and sinker.”

I’m silent.

He senses it and pounces.

“I had no choice but to make a deal with the Martineks to save us from embarrassment. If you want the full story, ask that pretty little fiancée of yours.” His lips curl. “While you’re at it, have a chat with her boyfriend, too.”

I study him, trying to gauge how far he’ll push this lie to destabilize me. The fucker looks downright gleeful.

“You’re lying.”

Boris’s laugh grates like broken glass. “How touching. She’s really done a number on you, hasn’t she? Such a waste of potential.”

“You’re not getting in my head, you old sack of shit.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t trust me. Understandable, given the circumstances.” He unlocks his iPad with a quick swipe. “But if you won’t trust me, trust your own eyes.”

He twists the tablet towards me just as it starts to play.

The footage is crystal-clear—Sutton in the grocery store, dressed in her usual oversized sweatshirt and jeans, blonde hair flowing down her back. She’s standing in front of the freezer section, probably debating what flavor ice cream to bring home.

A hooded figure appears behind her. Her body goes rigid, but she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t try to escape. Instead, their heads lean together in intimate conversation.

Acid burns up my throat.

I trusted her.

Boris pauses the video with a flourish, leaning forward. “Notice the timestamp in the bottom corner.”

I’ve already clocked it. Just weeks ago. Right before I took Sutton to Sardinia.

Where we spent days talking and nights fucking. Where I let myself believe my feelings for her were real. Where she encouraged me to lower my walls, inch by careful inch—and I took her up on it.

Was it all orchestrated? A calculated play to break me from the inside so the Martineks could finish what they started?

Everything slots into place with sickening clarity.

“If you need more proof—” Boris starts.

My gaze snaps to him and his mouth clamps shut. “I don’t need a fucking thing from you.”

I turn and stalk out of his office.

The ocean calls again as I stride through the building. But I’m not running. Not this time.

This time, I’ll remember exactly who I am.

The Beast of Palm Beach didn’t get his nickname by showing mercy.