Page 7

Tit for fucking tat.

The sunlight threw hard angles across the sharpness of his jaw. As always, his hair was too long and barely contained in a messy bun. Silver glinted from his ridiculously plump lip, nose, ears, and eyebrow. Shiny scraps of metal that made him look less like a pakhan and more like a cheap tart begging for attention.

A Mafia boss dressed up as a whore, flashing steel where a real man would wear scars.

T’fu!

Pakhan.

The word curdled in my mouth even associating it with him. I wanted to rip every stud and ring out with my bare hands, leave him bleeding and raw, so he’d remember what respect looked like carved into flesh instead of trinkets bought with money that had fallen into his lap from his father’s death.

Too many meaningless tattoos inked his skin, the one most visible crawling up his throat. A black spider, fat as a fist, squatted in the center of a web that spread over his neck like a noose. Its legs stretched down, disappearing beneath the neckline of his graphic T-shirt. Every time he swallowed, the spider seemed to twitch, alive, ready to sink its fangs.

My stomach coiled tight in revulsion at the disturbing sight, yet I could barely tear my eyes away.

“Nice reflex for an old timer.” His grin was crooked, cocky, and with every word spoken, the barbell in his tongue flashed.

Mraz. That was new. Our world knew Yuriy Orlov for two things: his appetite for blood and his equally insatiable need to fuck anyone regardless of what was between their legs. His sexual exploits and lack of discretion all around grounded my disdain for him.

In my world, the one he didn’t belong to, respect was earned, even in the face of malice and hatred. Yuriy Orlov wasn’t the kind of pakhan who deserved mine. He’d been handed a title when he was too young. I’d carved mine out of blood.

“Yuriy!” I spat his name like acid coated my tongue.

“Stanislav.” His tone was full of humor as he quirked an eyebrow. “But you prefer being called Stas, no?”

He knew damn well only my closest associates, of whom there were a handful, called me Stas. Almost a decade of animosity between us meant we knew each other too well. The five years of my daughter eloping with his brother should have softened our edges but had made them razor sharp instead.

Because of him, I hadn’t seen my printsessa in half a decade.

“You have five minutes to get out before I decorate the back seat of this car with your brains.”

“You know, Zhukovsky, you really shouldn’t threaten a man who gets off on violence like that, but it’s cute you think your blood wouldn’t be spilled as well.”

“This is my car. Now get the fuck out.”

“Is it? Because the driver escorted me here.” He used his free hand to run down the soft leather seat. “And quite frankly, I like the looks of it too much to give it up without a fight.”

I gritted my teeth, my finger too steady on the trigger. “Three. Two…”

“For fuck’s sakes, Zhukovsky, if you’re gonna shoot me, then do it already. Why the dramatic countdown? I could slash your throat before you reach one.”

“One.”

If you want to be a part of your grandchild’s life, Papa, you have to prove to me that you can get along with Zasha’s brother. Do you want to go another five years without seeing us?

Fuck, I wanted to pull the trigger, but my daughter’s voice from our last conversation echoed in my head. It took two years of calling a truce with Orlov for my daughter to relent and finally allow me to see her again.

For the first three years after she eloped with that no-good younger Orlov, I’d searched every nook and cranny to find her while trading more than barbs with the man next to me. Our last confrontation had almost been fatal—my bullet had grazed Yuriy’s temple, and his knife had missed my heart by an inch.

So close to death, I’d finally faced that unless I found a way to exist in the same city with this man, I would die, never seeing my beloved daughter again.

With great malice, we’d forged a truce. We’d redefined turf lines and avoided interacting with each other. Anyone who crossed those lines was fair game, though, and often returned in a body bag with zero retaliation.

I’d sent back more of his men than he’d returned of mine because he had no control over his family. They had no respect for him. Whereas I sent him whole corpses, he took his time to send my men back pieces at a time.

The sadistic fucker.

It’s not worth it. You’re here to see your daughter.