Page 5 of The Bratva King

Pasha's been at my side since we were boys, throwing rocks at each other's heads on Long Island. He knows me well enough to ask the question even though he already knows the answer.

I think he likes making me say it out loud. He says it keeps me honest. I think he just likes hearing himself talk me off the ledge.

"Not yet."

"They stole half a million in copper and product over six weeks, and you want to wait."

"I don’t want to start a war I don't need."

We continue to walk through the property.

“You want to know what’s getting old?” Pasha’s hands are in his pockets as he scans the gutted east wing. “They’re not even trying to be clever anymore. Copper and conduit. Next week, it’ll be the electrical panels. Week after that, somebody will put a backhoe through a load-bearing wall and call it an accident.”

“I know.”

“So let me put some people on it.”

“I said not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. It’s the sound he makes when he disagrees but knows better than to push. We’ve had this conversation enough times that we don’t need to use words to have the argument.

I stop in the center of what will be the largest of the three ballrooms. The ceiling soars nearly four stories above me, and even in its unfinished state, it’s something special. I can already see what it becomes. That is my curse. I see the finished thing before anyone else can, which means I also see every deviation from it more clearly than the men who build it.

“Your brother would have already burned something down,” Pasha observes. “I’m proud of you and your restraint.”

“Which brother?”

“Both of them, honestly. For different reasons.”

He’s right. Sergei would have made a calculated surgical strike when the first generator went missing. Maksim would have gone in loud and personal and enjoyed every second of it. Bit of a loose cannon, that one. Apparently, he has an arsonist streak now.

I am neither of them, which has always been the thing about me that nobody quite knows how to categorize. I hold it in until I can’t.

And when I can’t, few can stop me. Pasha and my brothers. That’s it.

“Sergei’s got his hands full,” I say.

A smile tugs at Pasha’s mouth. “The twins are good?”

“I guess. Says he forgot what sleep is, but he’s never been happier in his life.” I pause.

“It’s an amazing feeling,” Pasha says quietly. “And also the scariest thing you’ll ever do.”

He’s talking about his daughter. Mila is six, and he would burn the city flat for her without blinking. Pasha lost his wife, the love of his life, when Mila was a toddler. Since then, she has become the most important thing in his world.

“I’m not dragging him into this right now. Things have just settled for him. I’m not pulling him back.”

“Maksim?” Pasha starts.

“Maksim is still recovering.” I leave no room for argument. “Lila, too. The Albanian situation cost them both more than either will admit. He needs time.”

“He’d be pissed if he heard you being protective.”

I glance at Pasha. “He’ll never hear about it.”

Pasha waits.

I study the gutted east wing, calculating.