“The older one,” he said, spreading the photos out before lifting one.“This is the younger girl.”
It was a photo from the wedding. I hadn’t noticed her.
She wore a pale blue gown that hugged her figure, hair loose with a simple side parting. No jewellery. She didn’t need it — not with the way her blue eyes shone with life.
“Twenty-five years old, educated, from a good home.”
That amused me.
My father knowing what a good home looked like.
“And if she doesn’t work out?”
“Draw up your terms,” he said, pushing the photo towards me.“Do you doubt you can handle her?”
I snorted.
Women had a habit of becoming too clingy. It was rare that I stuck to one for long.
“She’ll do,” I said, placing my glass over her photo.
All I needed was a functioning womb to fulfil my deal with the devil.
The car was running. Bogdan moved ahead of me, scanning the old man’s driveway for danger before he opened the door. I climbed in and he closed it behind me, dropping into the front beside Tikhon, who pulled away smoothly through the iron gates and out onto the street.
Chernograd in late afternoon. The sky had gone the colour of a bruise above the rooftops, and the river caught what little light remained, dark and flat and indifferent. The city looked exactly as it was — a place that had learned to keep its head down. Our streets. Our order. My inheritance.
My phone buzzed.
Konstantin had impeccable timing.
“What do you want,mudak?” I answered, already smiling.
“To congratulate my new Pakhan on his nuptials,” he drawled.
“I should command you to get married as commiseration.”
“Papachkayearns for your bloodline. I’m the spare, remember?”
We never forgot.
Our father never let us.
For many years he had pitted us against one another, and for a while I had indulged in my own self-importance, leaving my brother out in the cold. When he began to shadow me in my work, our bond took hold within the vor. Brothers by blood and by brotherhood. Our resentment had finally found a common target.
Our father.
“I remember,” I said, watching the city slide past the window.
“Who is she?”
“Leonid Kozlov’s brat.”
“Galina?”
“How do you know her name?” I asked, frowning.
“I slum it with my brothers,” he said, chuckling.“Isn’t she unhappily married?”
