Page 7 of Scarlet Promise (Yegorov Bratva #4)

Chapter Six

ILYA

My head pounds the next day.

It didn’t earlier. Not when I woke at the crack of dawn and came up with a brilliant plan. A half-ass plan.

I’d deliver Albert. And then things would fall into place.

Fucking drunks , I think as I flick through the meetings I’ve got scheduled. That’s what we were last night. Drunks. With stupid ideas.

Christ, I don’t want to meet with a single person.

I close my eyes and remember that morning. All through my drive to Demyan’s, through the sympathetic eyes of Erin, the joyful scream of “Unca Ilya!” from Sasha, and the way he threw his arms around my leg, his little sister following suit, I thought it was fucking brilliant.

Hand over the dog.

Get the girl.

Placate the friend.

Status quo returned.

My head didn’t pound then. My mind was a fluid mess.

But bringing her Albert was a good idea.

“It still is,” I mutter at the message from a job I need to do, money I have to pick up.

The message begs for more time for reasons. I don’t know what reasons. I stop reading after the words more time because .

I didn’t feel drunk, but I must have been. Because I firmly believed Albert would magically fix things, and Alina would be here with me. My malyshka and Albert, my little family.

Yeah, drunk is the only explanation for packing up Albert in the hopes of me catching even a glimpse of her.

Of course Demyan appeared, all angry Russian god, ready to strike me down from his foyer. And he did, with one word.

No .

That’s what he said when he saw me.

No .

No, you can’t be here. No, I reject you. No, you won’t see her. No. No. Fucking no.

Even when I told him I brought her dog for her, I got the same monosyllabic answer.

His children whipped around to face their father. Nadya, who knows the meaning of no, started to wail and scream about the puppy.

I’m not sure Albert’s been a puppy in quite a few years.

“Albert!” Sasha insisted.

Like the “no” was meant for the dog staying here.

But all I did, at seven this morning, clearly still a little drunk, was hand over the dog bed from Alina’s room, the food dishes, leashes, and the food.

Then, before Demyan could say another word, I turned, got in the SUV I took from the stable of them in the garage and drove home.

Isaac left while I was gone, a note in his stead. I text him about the gym tomorrow and get a green face emoji and then a thumbs-up emoji.

I toss my phone and rub my eyes, when Svetlana knocks on my door.

She hovers, a tray in her hands, like a mother, and it pulls at my heart. Especially when she scurries in to deposit a pot and a mug on my desk. The pot contains strong black coffee. No fancy espresso or latte. Then, from the tray, she lays out butter, a knife, and black bread.

“Eat, drink. You’ll feel better.”

I eye the meager spread.

“Prison food?” I ask in Russian.

She sniffs. “ Nyet . Good for a hangover. I’ll bring you proper food later. Eat this first.”

“Thanks, Svetlana.”

“I’m glad Mrs. Belov is fine.”

Miss Yegorov, if Demyan has his way, but I don’t say that. “She’s with her brother.”

“She should be here, with you. And Albert. They shouldn’t be away.”

I hide my smile. I know Svetlana likes Alina, but it’s clear she’s got a huge soft spot for the dog.

When she goes, I drink the coffee and eat the bread, and I feel a little better. My heart’s still twisted in knots, and I’m heavy inside, but the hangover recedes somewhat.

I take the time to answer the texts and study my meetings.

“Fuck it.”

I grant leniency to the group I need to collect from and extend the payment pickup.

Me

Just this once. Make no mistake. This is not to be repeated. Late again and I will come down hard.

Then I call Denis.

“Ilya? You still live. Good.”

I ignore his greeting. “Can I count on you to handle and delegate the jobs on your schedule?”

“If you hang up, I can get back to the one I’m doing.”

“The answer is… Yes? No? Forgive me if I’m less than complacent and trusting.” I rub my temple and pull the bottle of vodka on my desk closer.

I open it and pour a healthy amount into my coffee. It hits the spot.

Denis muffles the phone and says something to someone, and then the soundscape changes to music. He’s scheduled to oversee a collection of drugs at a strip joint a Belov ally owns.

He’s early, and I wonder if it’s to enjoy the girls or to make sure everything runs smoothly.

My money’s on the latter, with a bonus of the former thrown in for good measure.

“It’s not that you were too complacent or trusting.

You just trusted someone who turned out to be a bad actor in this.

For what it’s worth,” he says in Russian, “I didn’t see that one coming.

He played the role of helpful second to a fault.

If he hesitated a little before answering or defended you in the kind of way that made you look incompetent to some, then they just chose the familiar option instead of looking into it.

“Your reputation precedes you, which is why I’m here. And why a few men who can think for themselves are either neutral or on my side, which is yours. But safer, if that makes sense. I don’t hide who or what I am, or who I choose to align with.

“If I didn’t want to be aligned with you, I wouldn’t have been at that dinner, and I certainly wouldn’t have been at that fucked-up raid. Now stop bothering me.”

Denis hangs up.

He’s an ass, but I think I like him. He’s a rougher version of Demyan. Not as powerful, but where Demyan’s smooth, this man is rough and tumble.

I want to trust him, and for today, I have no choice, but I also don’t want to think about it.

Actually, I don’t want to think about anything Belov related.

I cancel my meetings, no explanations, just the option to reschedule or lose the deals. In this moment, I don’t give a fuck.

I finish my coffee and vodka, the warmth of the liquor moving through me, easing the tension and the dull pounding in my head.

What I need is more booze.

I need oblivion.

That thing that’ll erase all the pain and frustration I feel. I’ll drown those sorrows so thoroughly that people will think I went Italian and put concrete boots on those fucking sorrows.

By mid-afternoon, the world is a better place.

The one thing I can’t make fuzzy is fucking Demyan.

His words still echo like he’s saying them now, in my ear, over and over.

Fuck me, I should’ve shut Alina down the moment she came up with that idiotic idea of marrying me. I could have paid any small-time bratva family looking for a way into the big time with my name and a ring for their daughter’s finger. It wouldn’t even matter who.

Even if they tried to extort more from me, break whatever contract I’d make them sign, it would be better than this.

No one would have been kidnapped. I’d still just be friends with malyshka , and Demyan and I would go on as usual.

Marrying someone I didn’t care for would have been safe. I chose my heart and put Alina in danger.

Thing is, I should have seen how dangerous it would be, but I was too fucking selfish.

I sprawl on the sofa, drinking from the bottle. Then I frown and get up, almost keeling over. I don’t want to be in this fucking study. Instead, I lumber down to the sitting room with the marginally more comfortable sofa and the bigger bar, one I haven’t raided yet.

Sprawling once more, I keep drinking.

My phone rings. I pull it from my pocket, the vibrations annoying me. I squint at the screen.

And my heart jumps.

Alina.

Not one of the many people I pretty much told to fuck off, but Alina.

I let the phone clatter to the floor, and I drink some more.

I’m not sure if I pass out or not, but when I open my eyes next, the shadows stretch from the partially drawn curtains and darken the room. I knock something over as I turn on the lamp, then I collapse down from the effort.

My phone starts to buzz once more. Alina. Again. I can’t speak to her. I can’t. She’s better off without me, better off with Demyan. Just better off.

I fumble for the phone and finally pick it up. The call stops, and I manage to activate the facial recognition and then turn off the phone, letting it clatter down.

“Albert!” I call, wanting the dog to come and be with me.

But he doesn’t answer.

I take a swig from the bottle and struggle upright, looking about.

But through the layers of fuzz in my head, I remember that Albert’s not here. I dropped him off at Demyan’s in a genius move this morning.

Or was it dumb?

I really don’t know. I reach for the phone again but stop myself.

“N-no,” I slur, “you didn’t answer. You turned off your phone for a reason.”

I’m in no state to do anything but get drunker.

So I work on that.

Pounding from outside my head jars me awake.

“What the fuck?” I fall off the sofa and hit the ground, sending the empty vodka bottle rolling.

I frown at it.

Wasn’t the fucking thing mostly full when I started?

Fuck me.

The room’s shadowy except for the glowing lamp behind me, and outside is black.

The thumping keeps going. Bang fucking bang fucking bang.

What the hell is it?

The front door.

I rub my eyes and push myself to my feet, the time on my watch stating 4:43 in the fucking a.m.

No wonder I feel like utter shit. Slightly drunk, mostly sober, and full of pathetic crap.

The pounding continues.

“Hold your fucking horses,” I say, stalking through the foyer to the door. I pull it open and lean heavily against it. “What?”

Isaak frowns then pushes past me. “You look like death.”

“Is that a step up or down from looking like shit?”

“Depends on your perspective,” Isaak says, looking at me with concern. “You also smell like a vodka distillery.”

“Why are you here in the middle of the night?”

He takes the door and shuts it. “It’s almost five, and you weren’t answering your phone from midday on. I grew concerned. I’m your friend. It’s what I do. Sue me.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I guess.”

“Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” I snap.

“No, I told you. You look like death. And you’re also impersonating an asshole. Where’s Alina? Albert?”