He’s a filthy fucking liar and doesn’t seem to care that I know.
If there’s one thing I hate most, it’s dirty, cheating asshole feds.
The entire situation is still un-fucking-believable.
Plus, I’m pretty sure Matthias has gone off the fucking deep end, so to speak. He’s starting to lose it. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, as the Americans say. There’s no way in hell I’m going to follow his orders. Not this time.
Keep telling yourself that.
I have an ample amount of respect for Matthias. The man is not only my leader, but a brother to me. I left Boston to follow him to Seattle as hisSovietnik, his second in command, almost five years ago, giving up my claim to the Ivankov Bratva thronein the process. Matthias never asked me to do it. He never had to.
I’m proud to stand alongside him.
The six of us—Matthias, Nikolai, Maksim, Leon, Dima, and I—are a brotherhood. Soldiers who’ve been to war together, who’ve been through hell. We’ve always had each other’s backs.
We always will.
I’ve always known that I was never meant to lead. My father tried his best to form me into someone worthy of holding his title, but I knew it’s never going to be me.
It can’t be.
There was no uncertainty when I give up my title. No regrets when my father removed me from succession to give the title to my younger brother, Pavel. While I was busy screwing, fighting, and drinking my way through Moscow after my eldest brother’s death, he studied. Listened. Learned.
He deserved to one day hold the title ofPakhan. It just isn’t who I am. Or who I ever want to be, and now that I’ve been thrust into that unwanted position, I know I never will be.
This shit is stressful.
With Matthias behind bars at the small federal detention center, it’s my job as hisSovietnikto step into his shoes as temporaryPakhanto ensure everything continues to run smoothly.
I don’t like it one fucking bit.
Especially after his latest set of orders.
I may be thePakhan, but it’s in name only. Matthias’s orders are still meant to be followed. Even if I don’t agree with them.
“Is everything secure?” Matthias asks from where he’s sitting, his large frame barely contained by the small metal chair they gave him. His scarred, tattooed hands sit folded congenially ontop of the scratched metal surface of the table, wrists cuffed to a large ring welded to the top.
Fuck.
Even chained, he’s a threat. The FBI aren’t idiots, but if they honestly think some handcuffs and a secured room will contain a man like Matthias Dashkov, they’re naïve and living in a world of fairy tales.
The only thing keeping me from busting his ass out of the dismal room is his orders.
He’s needed here. It’s the only way we can get access to the building to flush out where the false video came from.
“Secure as it can be.” I sigh. It’s our code phrase. Well, code phrase is stretching it a bit.
I pace the small room, sweat beading on my forehead as I wait the extra few minutes for our comms specialist to work his magic. Confinement and I aren’t known to get along, and although I know, realistically, I’m not a prisoner, my body isn’t getting the message.
Pussy.
Two long beeps sound in my ear, one tone after another.
Perfect.
Rolling my shoulders to ease the tension that’s settled there, I lift my eyes to the camera in the corner before waving my middle finger back and forth at it like a twat.
Nothing.
