Page 17 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Twelve

ILYA

If I were Demyan, I’d have lost my shit, tracked her down, dragged her back, and probably locked her up.

But I’m not him.

I don’t do things that way.

I can be hard, cruel, if I need to be. But I don’t do that with women, and I’d never do that to Alina.

Also, I don’t need to track her down. I have one of my most trusted men from the Yegorov Bratva following her at a distance, covertly. After leaving some animal shelter, she started walking, so I make sure her driver is ready to pick her up.

I go back to the books. The Yegorov machine is smoothly moving just as I expect it to. I’m not worried about that.

I’m worried about this one, the Belov one. Mine.

Oh, it could run without me, but it shouldn’t. If I want to shake it up, I should be able to without a single hint of dissonance. I’ve been familiarizing myself with the setup, with the lay of the land on the US side.

And time and time again, I run into issues. Not with the things the bratva are doing. No, it’s worse than that.

With the exception of Melor, my men seem determined to make my transition to their leader as difficult as possible.

My men. It’s odd to think of it like that, where I don’t have someone above me. My men. It’d even be laughable if it weren’t so fucking annoying as all hell.

Because my men don’t act like my men at all.

Things don’t turn up when I request. They drag their feet and sometimes almost ignore orders, right up to the moment I may cut them loose or end their lives.

I don’t mind being tested. I expect it. I’d be suspicious without it. But what I do mind is the insolence.

It frustrates me beyond reason.

I’ve been here well over a week now, two if you count the first time I walked into the mansion.

Days are long, and no matter how busy I am or how little or how much time passes, there’s been time enough to ease things, get to know the men, let them get to know me.

But the needle’s stuck on the same spot of insolence and mistrust.

I’ve been open. I’ve offered to listen to their input after I’ve let them know my plans for the future. I’ve been hardline. I’ve broken bread and set up drinks. Nothing works.

Without their trust, I won’t last long as their leader.

I could, I guess, bring in Demyan’s soldiers and allied troops and conduct a tempestuous coup of sorts, a mind-bending gutting of what’s essentially myself.

Because firing them wouldn’t be enough. I’d have to have them killed.

And that’s a big body count. A loss of life on the Yegorov side and possibly pissing off Belov allies and ruining deals.

It’s all a clusterfuck in the making, and if there is to be a merger, it should be that. Clean, supported on all sides .

Strength leaning into strength.

But all that is nonsense. The actions of a weak man, an ineffectual leader.

Belov will align with Yegorov. But it needs to be done with everyone here on board.

Besides, each cog here is important.

As for me, it’s a headfuck. All of it. I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact I’ve had this whole other side to me I never knew about. A legacy denied and hidden.

I only have a few memories of my father. I was so young when he died, and my memories are exaggerated. He was a giant. He filled all the space. He was loving and stern and soft with my mother. He was safe.

A good man who loved me and my mother, a kind giant with strong arms. My mother always reinforced that.

Yet my grandfather must have really hated him.

I know my mother didn’t want me in this world, but Demyan drew me into it.

Would my life have been different if she’d married the man my grandfather wanted her to marry? Would I have been different?

Then again, I wouldn’t be here, would I?

“Are you okay?”

I turn. Melor stands in the door between the two offices, and I just shrug.

“Same old.”

Melor nods. “The men are hard to crack. Set in their ways. Mistrustful of a stranger.” He switches to Russian. “But I’m sure once you get through to them, your job will be a lot easier.”

“I’m sure.” I sigh. “It’s not that. I know how these things work. Trust must be earned. I was just thinking of my grandfather and the fact I never got to know him.”

Melor gestures to the sofa, and at my nod, he sits. “Alek was a good, honorable man who put up with no nonsense. Old-school, as some of the newer soldiers say, those born here in America. And even some born in Russia. Alek was of the old world, but he had respect.”

“Of course.” I pace the floor, waiting for him to go on, because I can tell he has a lot to say.

“Many considered Aleksandr ruthless, heartless, but they didn’t know him. For those he respected, Alek would do anything. Even risk his life.” He looks at me. “Cross him? He’d cut you out as dead.”

Like my mother. I can read between the lines. What my grandfather did was unforgivable. She was his daughter. We were his flesh and blood. But a man like him… He lost all respect for her the day she disobeyed his orders.

Am I meant to be all right with that decision?

“Do you think he expected me to be just like him? Or was the will a way of forcing me into the mold he wanted me shaped into?” I don’t wait for Melor to answer. “He might have thought manipulation meant strength, and the manipulated are then worthy, but I disagree.”

“He knew who you were.”

That isn’t an answer.

“If he expected me to mirror his beliefs, to grow into them based on how he treated my mother, then this is a mistake.”

He’d be turning in his grave.

“With respect, I don’t think he did things without thinking them through. If he named you, even if you are his heir, he did it because he believed you would be worthy. Heir or not, if he didn’t believe in your worth, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“No, I suppose not.”

I say that, but I don’t agree. Of course, Melor doesn’t know the marriage clause, the manipulations from beyond the grave. But I think all it does is strengthen my resolve to shape this in my image, based on my ways and beliefs.

Sighing, I take a bottle of vodka and two glasses, cross to the desk, and set them down. “It’s been a shit of a day, and I really need a drink.”

Melor rises. “Not that American crap. Here…”

He moves to the bookshelf and presses a button, and the cabinets slide apart to reveal a hidden fridge. Melor opens it, and inside are bottles of vodka.

“The top shelf Russian stash, kept below zero.” He selects one and brings it over.

Demyan drinks this obscure brand. It’s expensive and made in a small Russian town, each bottle now labeled with a batch number. How times have changed.

I thank him, unscrew the bottle, and pour a thick slug into each glass. I hand one to him before collapsing in my chair. He takes the seat opposite.

Melor grins as he drains his glass. “Good, da ?”

I down mine, too.

“ Da ,” I say.

I pour us some more, and then I ask him point blank about a deal that’s in the works I’m not sure about.

It’s a small deal, loaning out a strip club that Alek used to launder, cover deals and make a quick buck by letting others pay us to hold their riskier shipments.

It’s not really that. Not for me. It’s the out of country small time cartel who want it for a two week period.

“So, what do you think?”

“Alek knew them.”

“Your thoughts?”

He half smiles, a little tight at the edges. “You’re the boss. ”

Shit. It’s clear he doesn’t want to do anything but toe the line, but I lean forward.

“Melor, one thing I’ve learned from my long friendship and working with Demyan Yegorov is this—honesty works. We’re always honest.”

I ignore the twitch in my jaw, a reminder about my current dishonesty regarding his sister.

“Even when he doesn’t like what I have to say, I tell him my thoughts, my reasons, and if he’s flat wrong, I’ll tell him.

He does the same with me. It’s different from here where the respect game is taken to the extreme level.

It’s a mutual thing of trust and openness, and that’s what I want, at least with the high-ups.

” I meet his gaze. “At least with my right-hand man, my second. You.”

“Me?”

I top up the glasses. Once we down them, I do it again. I leave the bottle in the middle, symbolizing the fact that it’s communal.

“The only way I lose respect is if someone panders or lies to make me feel good, or says that my decisions are right when they’re not.

Yes-men make the one in charge think they’re invincible, and it leads to corruption.

I watched Demyan work hard, and he got to where he is not through birth, but work.

People respect him for him , not for who his father was. ”

“And you want that.”

“I need that,” I say.

“I don’t like the deal.” He outlines why, and I nod.

Though there are a few places we differ, his reasons echo mine when it comes down to it. It’s too risky, and there isn’t enough payoff, and ultimately, the quick up-front cash flow leads to trouble down the line. Or it could.

Cartel might have been something my grandfather had no issues breaking bread with, but for me? I’d want to know them. And yes, I’d want more to cover what they want to pay.

I spread my hands as he refills the glasses. “We’re not the last choice. The deal’s dead. Tomorrow, we take care of that.”

“And if they hold a grudge?”

“Why?” I shrug. “The bratva changed hands. It means a change of circumstances, and it hadn’t been signed. Just discussed. They don’t like it, we can pin the fault on me. In transition, it’s not smart for them to enter into this deal. Everyone walks with dignity intact.”

“Not you.”

“Me, too. This is my choice, and I’ll take a small hit in exchange for good relations and a dead bad deal.”

“I think I will enjoy working with you.”

We laugh, tap glasses, and continue to make inroads. When my phone buzzes, I’m tipsy enough to smile stupidly when I read that Alina’s driver’s on his way back with her.

When she gets home, we’re drunker still.

“Ah, malyshka , you’re back.”

Her blush makes her face glow so delightfully, and I grin at her, making her smile back.

“Join us,” I say.

She takes a step into the study. “Us?”

“Melor and me.”

She takes one look and then goes downstairs, only to return with Svetlana, who carries a tray of food. Alina has a pitcher of water.

Svetlana puts down the tray, and Alina sets down the water.

“Thank you, Svetlana,” she says.

I hold out my hand. I’m not even sure why. There’s something about distance and friends hovering in my head, at war with me wanting to show her off to Melor. I’m vaguely aware I need to put forth something that proves we’re a couple .

Not PDAs or any such nonsense. But a smile, a moment. One of the things our friendship’s built on.

She bites her lip, holding a blue shirt in one hand, and then comes up to me. She accepts the glass that Melor offers, and she takes a sip. He nods at her.

I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s so beautiful, the lushness of her lips, the soft silk of her hair. Her eyes that are gold-tinged blue.

She bends into me. “You’re drunk. Good night, Ilya.”

She kisses my cheek and leaves.

My whole body sings as my cheek tingles and throbs with the feel of her soft lips, the flowery scent of her tangling around me.

“She is a good choice,” Melor says. “Beautiful, kind, good Russian stock.”

Like a horse . I hold that one to myself, but whenever anyone says “good Russian stock,” I think of a horse. But she is those things—good heart, soul, and all the other things that make her so fucking special.

“Alina is the best,” I say quietly.

We continue to eat and drink and talk. It’s understood that plans and ideas discussed now are just talk, and it’s good, freeing. But finally, we call it a night.

“Thank you for tonight, Melor.”

“Thank you.” He gets up. “Alek chose you for a reason, Ilya. He was not the type of man to choose blood if it wasn’t in the bratva’s best interests.”

He waves good night then leaves, and I clean up, finishing my vodka and taking the tray back downstairs.

This is the start I’ve been looking for. The beginning I needed.

It was a bonding moment. The needle really shifted, and I think I finally found common ground, an ally .

And now…now I’m determined to prove to everyone I can do this.

Most of all, I want to prove it to myself.

I can be a good leader, a new leader, someone my mother would be proud of.