It’s strange to think of the Bratva compound as home, but over the last few months, since we claimed it, destroying Pyotr Novikov’s clan in retribution for helping the Tanakas, I’ve actually come to like the more practical layout of the fortified Russian compound.
And with my adopted brother, Miko, taking charge as the new BratvaPakhan, we’re far less exposed than we would have been without a place to call home.
Speaking of the devil, Miko’s waiting for us in the vaulted foyer as we stride through the well-guarded front doors.
“How’d it go?” Miko asks, arching one eyebrow and swirling his tumbler of whiskey as he takes in Raf’s stormy expression, then my ragged appearance. “I take it the Lombardis thought better of the arrangement.”
Raf snorts as he makes a beeline for the cigar room and the fully stocked wet bar in it. “Against all odds—or any semblance of reason—they haven’t changed their minds. Yet.” He pours himself a healthy shot of whiskey and casts me a dirty look before dropping onto the couch without offering me one. He really must be pissed. “Though Sandro did a damn good job of trying to convince them to back out tonight.”
Shrugging, I head to the bar and pour myself a drink, then grab a handful of ice from the ice bucket and press it directly to my swollen eye.
Biting back a moan, I settle beside Miko on the soft chocolate-colored leather sofa across from my twin.
“Tweedledum over here didn’t bother meeting me at the house to get ready, like I asked him to,” Raf grouses. “I had to drag him out of the Murrays’ fighting pits once I realized he had no intention of even acknowledging the messages I sent.”
“You know I don’t keep my phone on me when I fight?—”
“And you know how I feel about your getting chummy with the Irish after what they did.” Raf’s words crack like a whip, his eyes flashing, but his argument has grown stale.
We’ve been over this more times than I can count. Yes, the Murrays joined with the Tanakas and Novikovs to burn our family home—and empire—to the ground. They smiled to our faces as they slid the knife between our shoulder blades.
But we only have the strength to take on one enemy at a time—and the Tanakas pose the largest threat to our continued survival. Besides, if rumors in the fighting pits hold any truth, the alliance made between the Japanese and the Irish might not last much longer. And that will only be to our advantage.
“Regardless of how you might feel about it, Raf, we all know what Don Augusta would have said,” Miko says softly. “Keep your friends close…”
“And your enemies closer,” Raf finishes, his expression dark with fury. “The strategy isn’t hard to grasp, but we both know that’s not why Sandro fights.”
His eyes find mine again, and I can see the underlying turmoil in them—because even if Raf and I stopped speaking about it a long time ago, I know he carries the blame for my insatiable thirst for violence.
He knows the reason behind it—all my brothers do. But Raf’s the one who feels responsible for creating the monster inside me. In many ways, we are two parts of one whole. So, despite the countless times I’ve tried to convince him otherwise, he still shoulders the blame for my worthless, broken mind.
Because there’s no denying that he got the lion’s share when it comes to intelligence. I’m about as sharp as a butter knife. But that’s not his fault.
Nor is the fact that our father tried his damnedest to beat some sense into me—literally—when he realized something about my mind wasn’t quite right.
I guess the lesson stuck better than I would have anticipated, because now that our old man is dead and gone, I’ve just found another way to get my bell rung.
When it comes right down to it, Raf’s not wrong to question the reasoning behind my actions.
Because logic has nothing to do with it. Fighting is the one way I’ve found to silence the voices in my head—the endless whispers of just how damaged and unworthy I am.
He’s right.
I don’t go to the Murrays to keep a finger on the pulse of our enemies. I do it for my own peace of mind. So I can get some damn sleep around here.
“Can we let it go?” I growl. “The Lombardis didn’t reject the proposal, so what does it matter if I made a bad first impression? If anything, I think it proves we can stop worrying so much about our numbers. They’ll definitely back us.”
Raf releases a heavy breath through his nose, and his shoulders finally start to relax as he leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “You’re right. They might not relish the idea of your being their son-in-law after tonight, but they didn’t even hint at backing out of the alliance. And their daughter handled the situation better than I could have hoped.”
His lips quirk into a bitter smirk, and I can see the pain behind his eyes as he stares into his whiskey glass.
“She’s beautiful, too, isn’t she?” he murmurs. “No doubt, she’ll make a perfect bride.”
I know the agony behind Raf’s words, the reason he couldn’t accept the proposal himself. He’s still carrying the gaping hole that his wife, Genevieve, left behind the day she died. And that loss is all he can think about. It underscores every decision he’s made, taints every emotion.
It’s funny. When Raf met and married Genevieve less than a year ago, I was sure he only did it to get under my father’s skin—not because she was the love of Raf’s life or anything, like Stephanie is for my brother Gio, like Sora is for Leo, and Anika is for Miko.
But seeing the devastation Genevieve’s death has caused him made me rethink what she and Raf must have had. It’s the one time I’ve come to doubt my understanding of my twin, and seeing his grief, day by day, makes me all the more reluctant to form that kind of attachment myself. Even if it’s just contractual.
