Page 9

God, yes.

“Waitress! Bring us drinks,” Mikhail shouts, his booming voice echoing in the empty club.

Katya straightens, her hands freezing on the bottles she’s rearranging. She glances around the room, her head turning from side to side, as if searching for anyone else who might fulfill the order. The space is empty except for us. She knows that. But still, she hesitates.

“She’s not a waitress,” I warn, my voice tight. Katya doesn’t take well to being ordered around, especially when it falls outside her job description.

“This,” Mikhail sneers at me, his lip curling in disdain. “This is why your woman fucks other men. You’re too weak.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t respond. I’ve heard the “you’re too weak” line more times than I can count. It lost its sting long ago. Besides, Svetlana’s indiscretions have nothing to do with how I treat Katya.

Before I can say anything, Uri steps in, his voice calm but firm. “He’s not weak. He’s smart. Smarter than you, Mikhail.”

Mikhail waves him off dismissively. “Smart? A real man doesn’t need to be smart. A real man takes what he wants.” He turns toward Katya, his tone turning dangerous. “Bitch! Get your ass over here with our drinks!”

Heat rises along my neck, spreading across my shoulders. My back stiffens, my fingers itching to curl into fists. Mikhail is half-deaf in his right ear. It wouldn’t take much—just a well-placed punch to his temple to leave him completely deaf.

“Watch your tone,” I growl, my voice low and menacing.

Mikhail smirks, clearly unfazed. “Or what?”

I glance at Uri, whose hand has subtly shifted toward his jacket—always ready, always watching. My brother says nothing, his expression unreadable, but my father’s sharp gaze cuts across the table like a blade.

“Enough.” My father’s voice carries the weight of command, silencing the room. He flicks the ash from his cigarette and leans back, studying Mikhail with cold disapproval. “Orders have consequences, and you might not like what they are.”

“And my order was a fucking drink!” Mikhail yells across the space.

My father doesn’t like to be disregarded. The tension in the room settles, but it lingers in the air we breathe. Katya hears the exchange, lowers her head, and returns to work. She either appreciated what my father said, or is planning to burn the whole bar down for real this time.

Once she finishes the task she was focused on, she throws a towel over her shoulder and gathers glasses to bring over to us. My father and brother are deep in conversation, discussing shipments scheduled to arrive tomorrow night, engrossed with the profit margins. Neither of them seems aware of the war about to be unleashed.

“Katya?” Uri’s voice breaks through, adopting a sweet, sing-song tone. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could you please bring me a bag of popcorn, too? Thank you.”

“What are you doing?” I hiss, leaning closer to him.

Uri grins, tilting his head toward the bar where Katya is busy fixing our drinks. “I grew up with women like her. I’m enjoying the show.”

Mikhail huffs, crossing his thick arms over his chest. “Another weakling.”

My brother snaps out of his conversation, glancing at Mikhail with a smirk. “Weak? His body count is double yours. He cleans his messes, and since he joined us, our business has tripled.”

The facts hang in the air, undeniable. Mikhail’s sneer deepens, while Uri leans back, his grin widening—poor guy is desperate for any sort of praise.

“We take what we want,” Mikhail says, his tone laced with disdain.

But my father interjects, his voice calm and commanding. “Only if it’s cost-efficient. Not all desires are worth the trouble.”

The faint clink of glasses signals Katya’s approach. She moves gracefully, a tray carrying our drinks and Uri’s requested bag of popcorn balanced on one hand. Her expression is neutral, but her sharp eyes flick between us, taking in the tension.

Uri stands as she reaches the table, practically bouncing with excitement as he grabs the popcorn. “Thank you so much,” he says, tearing into the bag as he settles back into his seat, wide-eyed, clearly ready to enjoy the chaos.

Katya leans across the table to hand my father his drink. The faint scent of lavender soap—or maybe shampoo—drifts in her wake, subtle but distracting.

“Dimitri said last night was interesting,” my father says, his tone probing.

“Yes, sir,” Katya replies, her voice polite but clipped. Her eyes narrow and her jaw locks, failing to hide her annoyance.

“I trust the rest of your evening was uneventful,” my father continues as she places a crystal glass in front of my brother.