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Mikhail lifts his own glass and salutes Igor and Galina while ignoring the looks exchanged between Father and Igor.
I join the toast, meeting Evgenia’s warm brown eyes across the table. She seems as clueless to the whole situation as I am.
“To our alliance,” Vladimir’s deep voice booms as he clinks his glass to mine. “And to a long-lasting, successful partnership with the Sokolov family. Hopefully, Fedot and Katarina will find their way to each other without us having to make arrangements.”
I choke on my drink, nearly spitting it out. My freedom isn’t even guaranteed yet, and they’re already decorating my next prison cell.
“Relax,” Fedot whispers by my side. “We won’t do anything we don’t want to.”
I’m barely able to fake a smile as the conversation returns to my family. Out of reflex, I reach for another glass of wine, gulping it down for the instant calm the alcohol provides. No matter how much I liked Fedot in the past, something deep inside tells me that Nikolai is the lesser evil. The Volkov name has more power than Olenko, but that could change in an instant.
Even among friends, there’s a hierarchy. Each Bratki must always remain watchful of the ones above and below them. My future would be as uncertain with Fedot as it would be with Nikolai, or with any other Russian mobster for that matter.
I only wish I had a say in any of it.
I finish my wine quickly, pouring myself yet another glass. He offers me a polite smile but says nothing. His arm is dangling around the chair behind me, but I refuse to let his comfortable gesture lure me into a false sense of security.
It’s a crazy world when a person has to keep their guard up in their own home.
The dinner seems to take an eternity. The conversation turns dull. The company bores me.
My drunken mind shifts to Nikolai and his silver gaze.
I wonder when our paths will cross again.
NINE
NIKOLAI
I’m so eager to leave Russia that I hire a doctor to fly back to New York with us. He patches up my wounds to the best of his abilities before turning his attention to Ivan.
Back home, I have three men ready to escort me from the private jet back to my townhouse on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Still, it doesn’t ease the feeling of having my life threatened.
During the flight, I made countless calls to my investors. They all insisted on having no knowledge of the assassination attempt on me. I’m not sure I believe them, but I also have no other choice but to let it go. At least until I find solid proof. Once I do, the person who put a target on my back will wish they’d never been born.
When I arrive home, I go straight for the shower.
This place has always been my safe haven. The security systems are top-notch and the around-the-clock guards are loyal and trustworthy. They have their own servant’s wing and a backup system in case something happens to the electricity. It gives me a sense of safety. I designed it this way after the love of my life was killed in a freak car accident along with my mother.
I take a quick shower to get rid of the sight and smell of blood on me. In two minutes, I’m out of the shower, and I let the warm air in the bathroom air dry the droplets on my skin.
I look at my bruised body in the mirror. The fresh scar next to my right eye is an angry red color. My left leg has been stitched up, and I put a new bandage around it. There are some scratches along my torso, but nothing serious.
With a groan, I run a hand through my hair before wrapping a towel around my waist. My body and mind need rest. That’s the only thought circulating inside my head as I close the distance from the master suite’s bathroom to the bed.
Unfortunately, I can’t afford to stop. I can’t even slow down.
Instead, I walk past the bed and into a walk-in closet. Without wasting time, I pick a suit, opting for a navy one paired with a white button-down shirt. An elegant choice that will show my enemies that I’m still in control.
When I get downstairs, Ivan stands to attention. His hulking shoulders seem slightly broader now that we’re alone.
“Ivan,” I greet him with a nod as I approach the table. Different kinds of guns and magazines are scattered on it.
“Nikolai,” he replies.
“You know I don’t like having those things in my living room,” I comment softly.
“You’re right,” he confirms. “I’m sorry.”
