Page 10

While I get how it may sound, given I tried to protect our own sister, I was very much for equal rights. A big difference between making a choice and being told. If this path, the position was chosen and earned? All power to them.

A refill landed in front of him, courtesy of me or rather Ilya, so he finally dropped the creepy staring. I lingered in my spot, determined to wait him out. Patience wasn’t my strongest suit, but I could adapt when needed.

The chunky family ring on my pinky tapped a steady rhythm against the glass.

The sound, close and constant, would probably drive someone insane after a while.

For a fleeting moment, as he remained unmoved, I considered choking the information out of the Italian.

But I was spared the effort when he finally caved.

“Her name is Taya.”

Torture forgone, I placed my drink down and asked, “Bratva?” One of ours?

“Independent.”

I turned to him in surprise, or as much as I could put on display. “There’s no such thing,” I dismissed his claims.

“There wasn’t. Now there is. You see where this is going?” He gestured toward the exit. “That bus has only one stop with her driving. The final one.”

I smirked at the added drama. “Incredibly poetic.”

“Liquor brings that out of me,” he admitted with a sigh.

“You care about her,” I stated, more out of observation than as a question.

A low growl rumbled from him, his protectiveness slipping through. “I don’t want her involved.”

I rolled my eyes. Do I have to do all the heavy lifting here? Short on creativity, I asked outright, “Involved in…?”

He looked me up and down, his expression a clear warning. The man might want to work on that.

“Whatever you have going on for you. ”

I thought about his words, unsure of where to go from here. We sat silently, aware of each other’s presence, both caught up in our own trains of thought. He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, his entire demeanor shifting unexpectedly as he followed up with a joke.

“Do me a favor. If I dance on any tables, feel free to knock me out.”

I matched his mood. “You can count on me. Can this be a two-way agreement?”

“You’re on. Lorenzo Artuso. Sicilian mafia.”

He held out his hand, and I accepted, shaking it firmly. “Maxim Galkin. Bratva.”

“Right,” he smirked, “the pale eyes and attitude gave you away.”

“Said the hairy one. You were such a hard guess,” I shot back, “with your overuse of the word ‘ stronzo ’ and those shiny shoes,” I added, pointing to his perfectly polished moccasins.

A quick look at the guy was enough to categorize him. He wasn’t far behind me in that regard.

“Now you’re pushing.”

With a cocky smile and a casual shrug, I admitted, “I love doing that.”

A brief second passed before he surprised me again, this time with an unexpected honesty.

“If we lived in a world where we could be more than just a coexisting party, I might say I like you, Galkin.”

I didn’t hold back the laugh that escaped me.

“Can you imagine?”

We shared a look of understanding and left it at that.

If we were honest, we probably had a lot in common.

Growing up in any of the organizations meant you were hardened into toughness.

The things you saw, the actions you witnessed, they shaped you into who you became.

Weakness wasn’t an option. Friendships? A luxury no one could afford.

Not in a world of favors and temporary trusts .

With a double shot of vodka, I left the Italian to his staring contest and rejoined the family. By the time we regrouped, we had reached the designated meeting spot: a formal dining room.

The reality hadn’t fully hit me yet. This would be Alisa’s life if she married Ilya.

As the Pakhan’s wife, she’d be expected to host, plan, and handle whatever else came with these endless meetups. That would be her role.

Alisa, my sister, who stands up to our father and talks back to our mother.

The same Alisa who sneaks men into her childhood bedroom when she isn’t busy sneaking out herself.

Who goes to raves just to live in the moment.

It was almost impossible to understand why she agreed to go through with the contract, but it was her choice, and I accepted it for what it was.

That didn’t mean I understood it, or ever would. Or that I saw it as the right decision.

One look around made it painfully clear that this was no ordinary event. Far from a typical family gathering, no expense had been spared. Only the best for the Pakhan. How he operated reflected on the entire organization, leaving no room for error.

Perfectly ironed napkins, silverware sets, and flowers of every variety filled every inch of the endless display of wealth. Soon, the table would overflow with food, and gossip would be served alongside the guests’ steaks.

Formalities were never my thing. Sure, I wore a tailor-made suit, mainly for how it hugged my body.

No complaints there. But stripped bare, I was still me.

No hidden truths, no fake persona. What you saw and heard was what you got.

If you couldn’t handle me, that was your problem.

I wouldn’t sacrifice a fraction of myself.

Unlike them. The ones who wore masks, presenting a front to cover the shame underneath. They were nothing without the lies they sold.

“He realizes we’re part of his organization. Who is there to meet?” Luka asked, trying to make sense of the gathering as we settled in the room .

“I guess we’re about to find out,” I replied, hoping to settle his unease. Seated at the edge, we all waited for the host. Andrei positioned himself closest to Pakhan, as his role as head of the family dictated.

My eyes narrowed at the set table, fighting the urge to flip the damn thing over. I promised Alisa I’d behave. And I will… try.

The door creaked open, interrupting the inner monologue I was enjoying. Ilya stepped in, the woman in red trailing behind. Her gaze swept across the room, landing on each of us slowly, as if memorizing our faces, matching them to something only she knew.

It took seconds before they made their way to the empty seats. Seconds I used to return the attention she’d given me.

Ilya greeted Alisa with the same enthusiasm you’d expect from a man caught in an arranged marriage or one of his position. A fucking nod. Stoic. Detached.

Okay, we need to have a talk about his manners.

Taya, as I learned from Lorenzo, the fellow bar enthusiast, stepped forward with swift, confident strides, seating herself at Ilya’s right. A chair, usually reserved for the second-in-command, Malek, who wasn’t present, was now occupied by the blonde woman.

The details couldn’t escape you. They were fragments of importance.

I studied the pair, looking for any signs. Any clues.

Are they related?

As far as I knew, Ilya had no family left. After his parents were murdered in Russia, he took over the Bratva and relocated across the ocean with Malek as his only passenger.

She couldn’t rank high in his inner circle without us knowing. Independent. The word had stuck with me since the Italian let it slip.

How does someone stay on good terms with all these gangsters without being forced to swear loyalty, one way or another?

“Who are we waiting for?” Taya broke the silence, drawing everyone’s attention, including mine .

“One more person,” Ilya answered.

They shared a look filled with a thousand words, and for a brief second, I saw this relationship in a different light. Realization hit me like a bucket of cold water.

Are they involved?

Should that be the case, shit won’t fly with me. Alisa won’t be someone’s second choice, not if I could help it.

The woman stood up, heading to the compact bar occupying the corner.

Perfectly aligned glasses awaited her on a tray, a bottle placed on ice.

Taya didn’t hesitate to pour herself a drink, ignoring the rest of us.

I followed every move from the spot at the edge of the table.

The glass rested against her lips, and when she was about to take the first sip, her back straightened.

I swear I heard a whisper of prolonged “ fuck ” under her breath.

The door opened, revealing Malek. The entire table turned to the newcomer as he greeted them in Russian.

I had been aware of him for a couple of years. It would be hard not to since we ran in the same circles, but somehow, probably because of his frequent business trips to Russia, we never met face-to-face.

Until today.

Focused on his face, I noticed the lack of body movement when he stopped midway, searching the room. His gaze locked on Taya, the corner of his lips lifting.

What in the fuck was going on in this messed-up dynamic of theirs? A love triangle of sorts? Why would Ilya invite Malek to this meeting if he knows he’s gunning for the position as we speak?

Oh, my fingers were itching to pull that trigger now. The gun strapped to my right ankle burned an outline into my skin.