At first, there’s nothing but silence in the room. Then slowly, hands begin to rise. Not only from the girls, but from my soldiers too. One by one, they wave their hands up high. Each one holding a grievance. A plea. A reason to be loyal to me.
This is going to be a long-ass morning. And I have Stella Romano to thank for it.
By the time the afternoon crowd filters into my club, I’ve got a to-do list longer than Webster’s Dictionary. A complete remodel of the stage and seats. Better wardrobes and accessories. A better DJ. Better booze. Lighting, security, and a new sound system. They even want me to change the name of the club and a new sign out front to match.
I’ll admit, I was never a fan ofThe Velvet Pole, and the alternative the girls came up with actually has a nice ring to it—Obsidian.The name fits me like a glove—all black, smooth, unyielding. A little too on the nose, maybe. Still, it’s a hell of an improvement. Might even class up the joint. By my count, all these changes mean I’m out a few hundred grand a week.
This club was never supposed to be a real business. It was meant to be a front. A place for my men to meet, unwind, andoperate in peace. But the amount of money I’m suddenly willing to sink into making everyone’s life better? Yeah. This place better start turning a profit the minute it opens again.
Oh, and that’s the other thing I somehow ended up promising. I have just informed everyone who works for me that I’m going to shut the club down until the end of the year for renovations, while still ensuring that everyone continues to receive their pay.
And the worst part? I’m not even halfway done through my list of demands, the terrorists. Because I still have my men to think about. They want more than booze and pussy now. They want raises, new guns, better cars, and a promise that if they end up in a ditch, their families won’t follow them there. They want respect. And they want me to give them a reason to believe I’m worth bleeding for.Pizdets.
So why the hell am I going through all this trouble just to make everyone happy? Oh, that’s right. Because Stella, with her fire-red hair and that maddening mouth, somehow managed to awaken my fucking conscience. To remind me that people with power have a duty to protect those without it. And I should know just how important that belief is since I spent most of my youth feeling absolutely powerless.
Sure, the Petrov name carries weight now. But back then? It meant nothing. Misha clawed his way into theBratva, tooth and nail, just to put food on the table, all while planning his revenge. One by one, he opened the door for us to follow.
However, now that our stomachs are full, it’s our souls that are starving. But that’s a problem for another day. Since it’s obvious I’m out of practice because all this do-gooder bullshit today has given me a migraine.
Without saying a word to anyone, I get up from my booth and walk out of the club, needing fresh air to clear my head.
Ratimir, our in-house bouncer who’s still limping from the time Stella rearranged his face, straightens up when he sees me.
“Boss,” he greets.
I give him a curt nod and step further outside into the parking lot.
The cold December wind hits my face like a slap, but I welcome it. Snow falls softly, clinging to my coat and my lashes. For a moment, the weight of responsibility on my shoulders eases. It almost feels like I’m being transported home. Not the fortress Misha’s holed up in now, but the slums of Moscow where we grew up. Where we learned to survive.
I can almost hear Kostya’s laughter echoing down the lane, his tiny hands clinging to Sasha’s shoulders as he guards the goal between two small rocks on the cobblestones. Misha and I are messing around with a football we stole earlier, kicking it back and forth across the icy ground. Katya and Babushka are leaning out the window, teasing us every time we miss a shot. At the same time, little Elena sits bundled up on the cold pavement, pretending to keep score and doing a piss-poor job of it since she can’t stop ogling Misha instead.
It was the dead of winter. Most of our clothes were hand-me-downs, frayed at the seams and patched in places that never held them together. My boots flopped around my feet, two sizes too big, while my brothers’ pinched their toes raw.
We had nothing. Absolutely nothing. And yet… It felt like we had everything that mattered. We had each other.
Then Katya got her new job. A job that meant having enough food to eat and keeping the lights on. We didn’t want for much, but back then, a bowl of hot soup and a loaf of warm bread were more than any of us could dream of. For a time, Katya’s job was our saving grace.
I even got to go to school, while Sasha and Misha worked odd jobs to ease our beloved sister’s burden.
I was only six then, but I’d never known happiness like that before. That happiness lasted two years. Two measly years before life turned cruel and heartless, snatching any semblance of true joy from us. Because that’s when Katya did the unthinkable and ran from the monster that kept her captive. Not that it mattered. Vasily Fedorov found her anyway. Found our Katya. After that, we were doomed.
I would’ve traded the new clothes and the full refrigerator for Katya’s freedom in a heartbeat. Unlike the strippers in my club, they have a choice. They’re not forced to be here.
My sister wasn’t as lucky. Our sweet, brave Katya. She was our North Star. Our beacon of light in the dark. And when she was gone, we lost our way.
Now look at us. Each one of us is crueler and more apathetic than the last.
Ah, Kira…I wish you could’ve met her. Your mother was one in a million. She was the mother to all of us.
As thoughts of my niece and sister swirl together in my mind, my chest grows heavy again. I’ve spent the whole damn day trying to prove to Stella that I deserve loyalty, when the only one who ever truly earned mine was my sister. That’s the only loyalty worth living up to.
“Ratimir,” I call out, without turning. “Go inside and bring me Lev.”
“Yes, boss,” he says, limping off.
A few minutes later, both men appear side by side, ready and waiting.
“What do you need, boss?”
