Page 21 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Sixteen

ILYA

Melor and I handle the small issue at hand. It’s one of the late IOUs I uncovered, and instead of dispatching soldiers, I join him for a sit-down.

I’m well-versed in the business, someone who shouldn’t be struggling in a part of Chicago run by an MMC.

The motorcycle club, Demon’s Wrath, is known to the Yegorov Bratva.

We don’t cross paths. But my grandfather did, and Demon’s Wrath, while keeping to their turf, run guns with our help. The Belov’s help.

The business owner, who runs a bar the Demon’s drink at, has protection.

Or did.

It takes a while, and I can tell Melor doesn’t exactly want to carry out Aleks’s set protocol. A finger for a late payment, or a bullet for the one stopping them.

Both players fall under the Belov Bratva.

But while quick and easy retribution or the taking of a lesser man from the Demon’s members, or a finger from a family member of the bar owner would usually be the answer, Melor and I sense something else .

And it clicks with a red-headed beauty’s fiery entrance. Both the bar owner’s reaction, a younger guy, and that of the leader of the Demon’s, who’s much older and clearly her relative, give me the story.

I hold up a hand. “If this is about a fucking love story, then you need to sort that shit out. We need to collect, and since this is over your daughter and this bar owner, then perhaps we should leave it up to her.”

“Aleksandr would end the scumbag’s life,” snarls Roland, the biker.

“And he’d end yours, too.” I didn’t catch the bartender’s name, but the family’s Irish, according to the notes I read attached to this IOU. “Aleks is dead, and I’m here.”

Melor crosses his arms at my words, his gun clearly visible.

I think briefly about shooting them both just to end this, but it’s a knee-jerk reaction.

So I look to the girl. “Your choice. Which one dies?”

She glances at them, and the love in her eyes is clear.

For both the men.

She then looks at me. “Take me. I’ll work for you, or you can kill me, but you can’t make me choose between my love and my father.”

My mouth twitches.

“Hear that? You kill him or force us to kill you or one of yours, and she’ll be devastated. You want that for your daughter?” I turn to the bar owner. “And you couldn’t be a man and talk to him?”

“Sort it out,” Melor says. “Or we’ll come back and sort it out until there’s no one left. The girl will come with us.”

The father sighs. “Take the fuckin’ money, but touch my daughter and?—”

“What?” I turn, walk up to him.

He’s a little fat, but he’s got a lot of muscle too. He doesn’t make me flinch an inch .

“You think you can threaten me? I don’t need the might of the Belov name behind me.

I don’t need the loyalty and power of the Yegorov Bratva either.

But I have it. And all the allies they have.

You start a fight, and you’ll be dust by morning.

I believe this bar owner will be asking for your daughter’s hand in marriage, and if you agree, think of the networks that’ll open to you.

“The Demon’s Wrath won’t just be an important cog. They just might become a powerhouse of their own.”

I turn and walk away.

The girl, Gina, comes with us, and she starts to get into the car, but I stop her.

“If you want a job, let Melor know by the end of your drive.”

“Thank you… You don’t think they’ll?—”

“Hurt or kill each other? Not a chance. They won’t risk hurting you or worse, unleashing your wrath.” I nod at Melor, who gestures for her to get into the car.

I drive myself back to the mansion.

When I step inside, I stop as I almost run into Alina, and my heart stutters in my chest.

She’s got a glass of water and one hand on the rail of the stairs.

“Did you just get in?” I ask.

“I didn’t think I had to report in. I’m?—”

“Hey, no, malyshka . Just a question.”

She breathes out. “I stayed late at the shelter with Albert.”

For a moment, jealousy bites, but I force a laugh. “Should I be worried?”

Everything about her melts. “Absolutely. Albert is the sweetest dog.”

A burst of sweetness fills me, and those emotional jaws loosen. “I’m happy he has a friend. ”

“Me too. I— I hope he finds his forever home.” Then she turns awkward, like the memory of our kiss has pounced on her and she strokes a spot on the railing. “I’m tired.”

There are so many things to say, things I promised myself I’d say. But timing is important, and I need to find out the night went as well as I thought it did.

“Go to bed.”

She turns and hurries up the stairs, taking my heart with her and leaving me in a pool of regret and frustration.

The next evening, I’m pleased with how the night before went.

“The girl is nice, and she doesn’t want to be a biker’s bitch, as she put it, and she doesn’t want to work for her now fiancé.

That would cause too many problems. We have a small outfit that needs a good bartender, a bratva bar we own.

Someone pretty who can hold her own and also, I hope, manage it.

I offered her the job, and she said yes. ”

I grin. “Which also puts them all firmly in our hands, so they’ll play nice.”

“Yes.” Melor picks up his vodka and tops up mine, then his. “I wasn’t sure at first. Your grandfather wouldn’t have cared. He’d have read it as a betrayal of an agreement and taken it out on both parties. This, I think, buys more loyalty. But…”

“But?”

“There is something to be said about taking a hard line when needed.”

“When it’s needed,” I say.

I look at my watch.

It’s been a pretty good day on the home front. A few of the guards are friendlier, but I don’t fool myself into thinking they’re going to be the ones who make it all work. The senior bratva members will, and they’re the ones I need to win.

“Melor, can we all go to dinner? Is there a good place the top members like?”

“Russian?” he asks.

“Only if it isn’t seen as pandering.”

He drinks the vodka, seeming to think. “I know the place. Russian owned, American with a Russian touch.”

He books the place, and the invitation is left in his hands to give out. I head there, trying to think of ways to boost morale and to make them see they can trust me. I’m taking a gamble by going early. A good, strong leader would normally head in late.

But a leader who’s confident in himself would wait, especially since the invitation is an order with a pretty bow on top.

“Thank you for coming,” I say when they arrive.

Gregory, Piotyr, Bogdan, and Denis are the most important, and only Gregory and Bogdan speak to me with any modicum of friendliness. The rest do, too, but it’s more a situation of they have to rather than they want to.

We order drinks, and the cliques and solidarity show quickly. I’m leader by name, but I’m not sure they want to see me as such.

I’m unknown, someone they see affiliated with another bratva, and untested.

When we take our seats in the private room of the bare, brick-walled establishment, I let them talk about work, needing to learn their way of doing things. From what Melor said, my grandfather ruled hard and tight and liked to sit back and listen. The latter part I’m in agreement with.

My goal is to find cracks and dissidence, but I’m really hoping to boost morale.

When Melor spins the tale of today, they sit stone-faced, unimpressed, even though I know what we did will benefit the bratva both now and down the line.

They talk amongst themselves about Aleksandr’s greatness, his way of doing things, little stories of times with him and things he said.

I bite down on my annoyance. I get it. This is part of the process, the passing of the torch. They should have the memories and stories. But they also need to look to me.

Melor meets my gaze, and I give a nod.

He gives me the rundown of the bratva’s current conflicts, along with enemies pretending they’re allies. He answers all the questions I throw out, even when they’re aimed at others.

While I do know most of this, we didn’t rehearse it. I just made it my business to catch up on my own. But I also watch the others, reading them, throwing out more questions based on certain reactions.

The only two who answer me are Bogdan and Gregory.

The rest stay silent, like stubborn schoolchildren, determined to freeze out the kid whose only crime is being new.

So I start asking them things directly. By name.

I’m met with silence.

Which makes me suddenly erupt.

“Enough is fucking enough. I am over this pettiness. It’s not becoming of any of you.”

My Russian catches them all by surprise, because up until then, we’ve all been speaking English.

“I’ve tried to give you space to grow the fuck up and accept me. I’ve been friendly, stood back, observed. Not interfered. But no more.

“You all either accept I’m in charge or fuck the hell off.

Loyalty’s a two-way street. I am loyal. I am fair.

But fucking cross me, and you’ll be shut out, cut off in all the ways.

And right now? With all the animosity coming at me?

I’m leaning towards getting rid of you all and starting with a clean slate. ”

With that, I get up and leave, storming out the door.

The place is about a thirty-minute walk from the mansion, located in the same upscale area, and I relish the walk, my fast, biting steps getting me there in well under thirty minutes.

When the guard at the gate starts to ask for ID, I stare him down, and he opens it, his head down with a mumbled apology.

The fucker knows who I am.

It’s not overly late, but when I go up the stairs, I don’t see a thin strip of light under Alina’s shut door.

I want to see her, just drink in that calming beauty, that air about her. But I don’t knock because I don’t want to risk waking her if she’s asleep.

When I hit my floor, I half step toward my room, then I pivot and go into the study. I pull out the good vodka from the hidden fridge and take a shot or two.