Page 121 of The Bratva King

“Yes.”

“Pasha?”

“Alive.”

There’s a pause. I hear him exhale. “Good. Tell me what happened.”

I give him the abbreviated version. Car bomb. Forty feet. Driver dead. Pasha injured.

“The Italians.” His voice is flat with certainty.

“Yes.”

“This is escalating faster than I expected.” I hear papers shuffling in the background. “I’m coming out there.”

“No.”

“Nikolai, we knew these guys were causing problems. They’re assuming you don’t have the force of the Bratva behind you.”

“I can handle it.”

“You almost died yesterday.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

He’s quiet for a moment. I know that silence. It’s the one he uses when he’s deciding whether to pull rank or let me handle my shit. He’s my older brother, but he’s also my pakhan. Two separate roles. Two separate sets of rules.

“Sergei, I can handle this.”

“Fine,” he says. “But if they come at you again, I won’t ask permission. I’ll bring an army.”

“Understood.”

“How’s the new property?”

“Opening on schedule.”

“Good.” Another pause. “Are you actually okay?”

The question catches me off-guard. Sergei doesn’t usually ask twice. It’s one of the changes I’ve noticed since he got married and had children. I would never call him soft, but some of his harder edges have worn down.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Bruised. Pissed. But fine.”

“Pasha’s family?”

“His mother’s with him at the hospital. Mila’s here with us.”

“Good. Keep them close.”

“Yes, Mila stays. They’ll both come here when Pasha’s released.”

He clears his throat. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

I hesitate, though I don’t know why. Sergei is my brother. One of the few people I trust completely.

“There’s a woman,” I say.

He says nothing.