Page 82 of Scarlet Vows

He doesn’t speak for a moment. “You told me to speak frankly and honestly. So I don’t think you should do anything drastic, like kick anyone out.”

“Do you have a good reason why not?” I slide my shoes on and tie the laces.

“These men are the most loyal I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t know about that,” I mutter. “So are Demyan’s.”

“Perhaps,” he says, “but if that’s true, you also know how much a loyal man is worth. They’re just nervous about change. Aleks never told them about you, never said who the bratva would come to. As far as they knew, he didn’t have relatives.”

“Who did they think it would be?” If it’s one of them, I can see the problem, but none of them have the same standing as Melor.

He sighs. “Either someone from the Russian end of things, or me. I did know of you. Aleks told me you were in his will.”

“So I should have been nice? Brought them flowers?”

“What you did and said was right. Just don’t follow through, is my suggestion.”

I pick up the phone and carry it into the bedroom with a sigh. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have flown off the handle, but I am sick of being treated like nothing. Worse, like a traitor.”

“They don’t think you’re that.”

Don’t they? I’m not so convinced.

“Melor, will you help me? To get through to them? They obviously trust you and respect you a lot.”

“If I look like I’m helping you, it’ll fail. They’ll see you as weak.”

I’d feel that, too, if the roles were reversed. I’m justannoyed and pissed off, and this idiocy is taking up precious time.

“So what do you suggest? You know them.”

“Show them you have the balls to lead, like your grandfather did.”

“I’m strong, but I’m not him, and trying to be someone else doesn’t work.”

“Show your strength.” Melor pauses. “We’re currently fighting for territory?—”

“With the Simonov Bratva? I saw the notes, but didn’t have a chance to ask.”

“Yes, them. Make a bold move against them,” Melor says, “and show your men you’re a leader.”

A bold move or an act of unnecessary war?

“It’s something to consider.”

“Do,” he urges.

I leave the bedroom, cross into the study, sit behind the desk, and go over the Simonov Bratva information my grandfather compiled. It doesn’t matter how much I know them or don’t. What matters are the circumstances, the grievances, and the common ground between them and this bratva.

As I do, Melor and I discuss the day and what he’s up to, and I pass orders along to him for the men.

He starts to say something, a hesitant, soft question that I cut off.

“If I need to go down every fucking day and bark out orders to each and every person, then I might as well start this arm of the bratva from scratch. If people don’t like or don’t understand delegation and give you a hard time, let me know.”

Because whether he likes it or not, those people can go.

“Think about what I said,” Melor says.