“Yes?”
“Brother, I hear congratulations are in order.” Nikolai is my younger brother, we’re the closest in our family. He’s Facetiming me from his loft apartment and I can see a woman asleep in his bed. No, two women, curled around each other.
“Apparently so,” I said, pouring a glass of vodka, silently toasting my brother before consuming half of it. “This should be keeping our father in good spirits, at least. There’s nothing that pleases him more than humiliating the enemy.”
“I never saw Dubrovin for that,” Nikolai says, “he’s too much of a coward. I thought he’d be too busy snorting the family profits up his nose to consider something this stupid.”
“Only a fool samples his own product,” I snort, “and it looks like his soldiers are following suit.”
“Yes, that’s what made it so easy to track the stupid son of a bitch,” he agrees. “I am concerned thatOtetsand Dmitri are ignoring your warning about the Wozniak Mafia. We might have gutted the Dubrovin Bratva, but Szymon Wozniak has had to have invested too much into this partnership to give it up.”
“He’d be suicidal to go up against the Turgenev Bratva,” I say, “but I don’t like that there’s a third player and no one knows who it is. Did you pick up Dima Abelev?”
Nikolai chuckles. “Taking him was so easy that he should be humiliated. Well, if he was still alive, anyway.”
“What did you get out of him?”
“Next to nothing,” he says, clearly disappointed. “And you know I put my back into it.”
I do. My brother was more than happy to learn everything I could teach him about the fine art of torture.
“How did that asshole make it to the level ofBrigadierwith that kind of stupidity?” he asks.
“Maybe he was brighter before his drug addiction and gambling habit took over. Still, I was sure he’d know more.” I look outthe window, watching the first layers of red, orange, and yellow creep over the horizon.
“Let’s take a look at the Wozniak men,” I say, finishing my drink. “They’ve got to be hanging around St. Petersburg, hoping for some crumbs. See who you can pick up. I’m going to do some digging on this mysterious third party.”
“Agreed. So, tell me about your fiancée,” he says with a grin. “I’ve seen pictures. Little Lucya, all grown up. She’s hot as fuck. Didn’t she chase you around for half her childhood?”
“Speak respectfully or I’ll slap the words out of your mouth,” I snap.
His grin widens. “Did I strike a nerve there, brother? Are you happier about this arranged marriage than Dmitri is?”
“What do you mean? He seemed happy enough on that conference call.”
“Eh, he was drunk last night and complaining that he got the ugly sister,” Nikolai says, “you know him. He always wants what he can’t have. I’m almost tempted to tell him that you and Lucya are happy about your union. That would kill him.”
“Don’t say a goddamn word!” I snarl, “Nothing, do you hear me? Never underestimate his ability to fuck this deal up if he doesn’t think it’s in his favor.”
“I was joking!” He holds up his hand in apology. “I try not to talk to that asshole at all. Let’s discuss something else before you reach through the phone and stab me. How is the takeover of Boston going?”
“For the most part, easier than I expected,” I say, pacing the dark living room. “When it comes time for expansion, I could askOtetsfor your assistance.”
“Please!” he says, “I’d give anything to get out from under the old man’s thumb. I didn’t think it was possible, but he’s becoming an even bigger bastard in his old age.”
“He’s still your father and more importantly, your Pakhan,” I say sharply. “Show some respect.”
“I do,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Publicly, anyway.”
“He will always hear and see more than you expect, there’s a reason the Turgenev Bratva has been this powerful for so long. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
His expression is bleak. We look the most alike in our family. Dmitri was born to our father’s first wife, who died under mysterious circumstances when she couldn’t get pregnant again. Nikolai, our sister Irina, and I have the same mother, who passed away from cancer at thirty-five. Our youngest brother Damien is the product of our father’s third marriage to a shivering, terrified eighteen-year-old, traded off from her father’s Bratva.
“Well, with that cheerful thought in mind, I’ll let you get some sleep,” he says. I can tell by his sly grin what he’s about to ask. “Have you bedded your fiancée yet? She’s fucking gorgeous, and-”
I end the call.
“You know, I could take over the cooking, some of it, at least.” Lucya is yawning, leaning against the kitchen counter and looking like it’s the only thing holding her up. “Except for breakfast,” she amends, watching me flip another batch of hotblinisonto a plate. “You should really stay in charge of breakfast.”
