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Oleg, Nikolai’s second-in-command, sits in the bar area with his back to the wall, watching the casino. A cheer comes from a blackjack table. I don’t have to look over to know they’re Nikolai’s men. They’re being obnoxiously loud.
Oleg is a large man, which is more evident when he slowly stands at my approach. In contrast to his boss, Oleg is respectful and offers his hand. “Mikhail,” he says. “How long has it been?”
“A few years since the last shindig,” I say, finding it difficult to speak when all I can think about is hurting his boss in the most gruesome, messed-up ways.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Sure,” I say.
He pours me a glass of whiskey. I’m not much drinker, but I need to speak with Oleg seriously. If keeping the drinks flowing helps with that, I’ll take it.
“My condolences, Mikhail,” he says after a pause, offering me the glass.
I take it. “Thank you, but my old man deserved much worse than he got.”
I knock the drink back, then carefully place it down. There’s so much restlessness in me. I’m worried I will squeeze it too hard and shatter it.
“Some people might find that concerning,” Oleg says carefully, then takes a sip of his drink.
“I know,” I reply. “Some people might also think it’s a petty, pathetic power move to bring your men in here and have themobviously and publicly make their presence known. It’s almost like you want people to connect the Sokolovs and the Petrovs.”
“Mikhail, friend,” Oleg says in his accented voice. “The entire world is going to know very soon. When Dimitri and Mila marry …”
I grit my teeth, saying nothing. Under the table, my hand opens and closes again as the tension works through me. Ugly images of my brother in his suit, Mila in a beautiful dress, the two holding hands and sayingI do, twist my mind into a thousand ugly pieces.
“How’s the boy doing? Dr—” I stop before I sayDrake. “Anatoly?”
I can feel Oleg looking at me. Out of the corner of my eye—or maybe it’s just a sense—he’s searching me for a sign of something. “That’s a curious question coming from you.”
He hits his daughter. He beats her—my Mila. My head is pulsing with the need to do something drastic.
“He’s doing well, as far as I know,” Oleg says. “A good, hearty, healthy boy.”
Oleg pours two more drinks. I move my finger around the rim of the glass. The whiskey has loosened me up a little, making me think of going back to the meeting room and grabbing Nikolai by the throat, crushing his weak frame in my hand, and making him sorry he ever dreamed of hurting Mila.
“Is there a reason you’re not in there with them?” Oleg asks.
“I could ask you the same question.”
Oleg flinches as I turn to him. The big man’s eyes flare with anger, and right now, I see it—the resentment he holds, but I have to be careful not to overstep. Any talk of betrayal in the Bratva world can mean death.
“Why else?” he finally snaps. “Nikolai ordered us to.”
“Heorderedyou,” I say in disgust, shaking my head. “How did he do that, Oleg? By what right? How did a small, snively, weasel of a man like Nikolai forceyouout here?”
Oleg sits up with his Bratva instinct. I hold his gaze and don’t let him see the adrenaline pumping through me. After the torture, the sleeplessness, and the closeness with my woman, I feel raw and on edge in a way I never have before. It’s like everything could fall apart at any moment.
No, that’s not right. It’s like I couldripit apart. Our whole world. The peace we’ve managed to keep.
“Those are brave words,” Oleg says quietly.
“Maybe,” I reply. “Or maybe Nikolai is a man whose power came from my father’s backing. Maybe your men find it difficult to be inspired by a man like that. Maybe you’ve been thinking, Oleg?—”
“I haven’t been thinking anything,” he says quickly, not wanting to seem like a traitor.
He’s going to be reluctant to agree with anything I say, but I can tell, just from looking at him, that I’m right. It’s not like it takes any insane level of insight anyway. Nikolai is a worm, and Oleg is a big, strong, self-assured man. Howcouldhe respect him?
“Nikolai always had my father’s backing. The Sokolovs are more powerful than the Petrovs. That’s not an insult, just a fact.”
