Page 5 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Four

ILYA

I’m not able to breathe properly until I’m in my car and on the way to the mansion.

I had to get out of there fast. Because honestly? The thought of kissing Alina kept pushing forward, painting fantasies in my head. I already knew how her skin felt under my lips, so a kiss…a real one…

It made my body react in ways it shouldn’t. Made me hard, made my heart slam against my ribs, and while I fought that visceral reaction and pictured the unattractive guy I have to meet to deflate my erection, I shouldn’t have to do that.

Alina shouldn’t make me react. Not like that.

I’m going to help her. Of course I am. There never was a question otherwise.

Personally, I want to find this mafia don and end him.

What rights does he think he has to corner her, push himself on her, and make her agree to a date?

Alina didn’t have to tell me she didn’t want to do that. It’s implicit.

Sure, he may not have known. He may even think he’s a gift from the gods for all women, but Alina would have said no.

She did say no .

No to a drink, no to his attention, no to a date.

But if I have to pretend we’re engaged to get him to back off, then why the fuck not? There’s no real hardship other than blue balls.

And those are worth it for Alina.

Keeping her safe. Indulging privately in a fantasy.

The guard lets me through the gates, and I wave to him. After I park, I head into the office, calling out a “hello” to Magda and the rest of the staff. I’m not as rigid as Demyan, but they still operate like he’s here. They know I won’t put up with anything less than perfection.

In the office, I tidy the already neat space and pour a small drink from the wet bar.

Then I take Demyan’s seat, an act that still doesn’t sit right, even though he ordered me to do just that while he was away.

I sip the drink and pick up my leather folio. The papers from the lawyer are in there. But I don’t open it. I’ve no desire to read the hand-written note from my so-called grandfather. And I’ve no desire to go over the rest of the legal documents.

The estate lawyer’s from an excellent firm. She’s got no skin in the game to lead me astray.

I rest my hand on the folio.

If I’m going to take the money, the position, then I’ll need a wife. I know Demyan would be interested in the money and the power that the Belov Bratva has. Big and small, power amasses, like wealth.

He wouldn’t steal it or try to absorb it from me. But I know him well enough to see, even on the very thin surface I’m aware of, that this is something that could benefit the Yegorov Bratva and myself.

If I can find someone to marry me .

“Fuck me.” I mutter the words into my glass and finish the finger of vodka, then I get up and pour another small one.

It’s not lost on me, the obvious answer.

And it won’t be lost on Demyan.

Alina.

She’s the absolutely perfect choice for me to marry.

I’m already tied to this family, and bringing in more power and money, taking a bigger position, is something I’d love to do.

But strip that away and take it down to me just marrying a girl, and she would still be perfect.

I love being around Alina, and we get on famously. She’s one of the few people in this pathetic world I truly trust. And if it turned out there was a test, we could pass it.

I’d marry her in less than a heartbeat.

I down my second glass. Pour a third, but don’t drink it, taking it to the desk instead. Then I go about setting up for the meeting—an iPad ready to go on the coffee table and the same info on the computer on the desk.

Boris Gelsky’s eager to get in closer with us, and Demyan’s left it up to me to decide. We can use him, and selling a property Demyan isn’t doing anything with could be a good-faith thing.

But I’ll see.

I rub my eyes and wait for the vodka to warm me a little.

Yes, I’d marry Alina for the purposes of convenience, just like I’m happy to pretend to be her fiancé to get this guy off her back. But realistically, it’s not a reasonable or ethical option.

Alina’s been through so much. It’d be an asshole move to ask Alina to put herself in that kind of situation.

Christ, I can almost hear her yelling at me, telling me it’s her decision and that she’s not delicate.

She’d be right .

But there’s a difference between falling in love and a manipulation of intimacy with a fake marriage. I can’t do the latter to her. Not for a year.

She should heal, not go backward, not mess herself up.

Not that she feels anything beyond friendship for me.

But a year could give her false feelings or even change her feelings for the worse.

And…shit. Truth is, there was a time I thought I was in love with her. I know I’ve still got a crush. Me being that close is a terrible idea because I can’t go back to feeling like I’m in love again.

She’s only seen me as a friend.

And I cherish that.

I don’t want to go back to those feelings. I can’t.

I liked Max, and when I saw them together at first, I knew he was her one. It was clear from the both of them.

Her happiness means more to me than anything, and when she lost him, it devastated me, too. For her.

Sometimes, my crush comes back. Bigger, worse, bordering on huge feelings I have no right to.

How the fuck do you try to work through these feelings by making a move on the girl who’d just lost everything? You don’t.

You hide them away and try to stamp out the crush and the big feelings until they’re …whatever the fuck is in me now.

Shit. Maybe it’s love, these feelings. Maybe it’s just on the cusp. But they’re buried. Gone as much as I can make them be gone.

Timing isn’t a friend. It never will be.

Apart from all that, she’s fucking Demyan’s sister.

She’s off-limits.

I laugh. Holy fuck, not only would I never risk that friendship or the one I have with Alina, but if Demyan had an inkling that my feelings for his precious sister were less than pure?

He’d murder me.

Slowly.

Painfully.

Nothing less than I deserved.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say Demyan would kill me over fake marrying his Angel.

Gregov, one of the higher security men, knocks on the door.

“ Voydite ,” I say, asking him to come in.

Gregov leads Boris Gelsky inside. I wait until Gregov leaves to stand and head to the door.

Then I shake his hand. The disappointment that I’m not Demyan is clear on his face, but there’s no malice or anything behind it. Just the letdown that he’s not speaking to the big boss, the pakhan himself.

“Demyan sends his apologies, but he’s conducting business elsewhere. Vodka?”

The man nods, and I pour him a glass and hand it to him.

I sit. “Let’s talk, shall we?”

I don’t get home until late, and then I flop down on my sofa in my duplex apartment in South Loop and loosen my tie.

The meeting went well, and I think Boris will be good to have under our umbrella. He’ll be an ally and enjoy protection from a bigger, more powerful family, and he’ll lend us people when needed.

I called Demyan on my way home, and he approves. I didn’t need to make the call, as he reminded me. He trusts me. And it gets a property he didn’t care about off our hands and lands us a small ally as well.

But I needed to call. It’s not guilt for the thoughts I had over Alina. Nope. It’s because I like to keep things inside tight perimeters. Keep things neat and tidy and structured.

I’d have turned it down if I didn’t think Boris wanted to align, but all my research into him and his operations was backed up with the meeting with him.

That, and how he moved past his disappointment that I wasn’t Demyan. He did it with style, honesty, and without a hidden agenda.

I think we’ll both benefit from it. The Yegorovs and the Gelskys.

With a sigh, I pull off my damn tie, get up, shuck my jacket, and pour a drink. In a bit, I may go for a run. But first, I need a moment of decompression, one I can’t ensure with exercise.

Because of that fucking bullshit deal with my estranged grandfather’s estate.

I push off my shoes, glad I dragged the bottle of whiskey with me—I’m not in a vodka mood—and I top up my glass. Then I grab my phone, and as I sip the drink, I open up my photos and scroll through the family album I created.

It’s mostly me and Alina, or just Alina.

Fuck this whole inheritance predicament’s utter bullshit.

Maybe I should let it go. Not tell Demyan.

Not even tell anyone else. But where would the money go?

The power? As much as I hate the manipulation from beyond the grave, I want to fuck him over by just finding a woman to do this with and then go our separate ways.

I pause on a selfie we took at the park, crowded on a swing with Sasha in our arms. It fucking breaks my heart. She’s so perfect. She’d be the perfect one. I know that. Even in this picture, Sasha looks like he could be ours .

It kills me not being able to admit how I feel even a little. Or even that I like her more than a friend. I can’t ask her out. I can’t do anything at all, and I wouldn’t.

Disgusted, I close the album and finish the drink. Then I toss the phone onto the coffee table.

What I need to do is probably order dinner—Chinese at this hour—but I sit back, sighing.

I need to order some dinner and then concentrate on finding a trustworthy woman with bratva ties, maybe with one of our allies, one who’ll agree to the terms I set up. A payment, perhaps, and one year.

I’ll need the pakhan’s permission. And I’ll need to trust him not to try and trap me into giving up everything to him and his family. But the problem with that is, the only other bratva pakhan I fully trust is Demyan.

Other?

No, only.

Then it hits me. If I agree to one year, I become the pakhan of the Belov Bratva.

So Demyan wouldn’t just be the only pakhan I trust. He’d be the only one other than myself that I trust.

I know enough women who have bratva ties, even by marriage, and I’d trust a majority of them enough to stick to a contract I draw up. But the families they’re tied to?

Not to that extent.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

Food… I need food, and I know my cupboards are bare. I pick up my phone to call my local Chinese place when it starts to vibrate.

“Okay, who died?” Isaak asks. “You called me three times. Didn’t even bother leaving a message, but three calls? Something’s happened. Spill.”

“Funny thing happened on the way to the office,” I say. “Got a call from an estate lawyer. Seems I’ve got an inheritance and a newly dead grandfather who likes to interfere from beyond the grave.”

I pour another drink. Liquid dinners count, don’t they?

There’s street noise over the phone, but then the sound ends suddenly. I assume Isaak just crossed the street into his lobby. He says “hi” to someone, and then there’s the ding of an elevator.

“You weren’t getting ready for bed, were you?” he asks. “I just saw the time. Sorry to call so late, but work was a nightmare today. I literally just got out of my cab and home.” Liquid hits glass. “Of course, if you hang up now, I’ll have to come over and kill you.”

I laugh. “I’m not hanging up.”

“What kind of inheritance?”

I open up the folio and read out the numbers listed. “That doesn’t include properties and the like. That’s the bank account. I’m apparently heir to the Belov Bratva.”

“Holy fuck, man.” Isaak pauses. “You’re loaded. And with the bratva, too? That’s exciting. It’s about time you became the leader you’re meant to be. This is going to be great. I can help invest money and grow it, too. You’ll?—”

“Slow down, Isaak. It’s not that simple.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

I rub my eyes and take a sip of my newest drink. “I mean it’s not simple. I think there’s a big reason my grandfather was estranged, and why my mother told me he died not long after I was born. The man’s a controlling freak in death, so I can’t even begin to imagine what he was like in life.”

Isaak’s silent for a moment. “Look, man, if you have to spend time in Russia, I’m sure we can get some lawyers on it, and then we deal with it.

Or just spend time going back and forth.

He had a lawyer here, so it sounds like he knew where you were.

Even if the Belov family’s based mostly in Russia.

US business is a good thing. The dream. ”

I sigh. “If it was just that, it’d be easy. But it isn’t. The asshole?—”

“Dead asshole.”

“Dead asshole,” I say with a ghost of a smile, but then it fades. “I need to find a wife to access the inheritance.”

“I’d say put an ad up, interview women, but why do I think there’s more to it?”

“Because,” I say, “there’s more to it. My hypothetical wife needs to be someone with bratva connections.”

There’s silence. I expect protests, ingenious off-the-cuff ideas that’ll be dead in the water in minutes. Isaak’s always been an ideas guy. But he doesn’t.

He says the worst thing possible. “Alina.”

“Who?” I ask.

“You know that guy Demyan? Doesn’t he have a sister?” he asks with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “Alina’s perfect, and from your ‘who,’ I know you know I’m right.”

“I know nothing of the sort, Isaak.”

He snorts. “Bullshit. Alina is perfect. You work for her brother, she loves you, and you… Come on, man. You’ve had a crush on her for years anyway. She’s, in a word that I’ll keep repeating, perfect.”

My mouth goes dry, and I struggle to swallow. “That’s not true. I like her, true. Who wouldn’t? Alina’s a doll.”

“I don’t moon over her.”

“Even I know no one says ‘moon over.’”

“ I just said it,” Isaak says. “And I’m serious. She’s a great choice, the perfect choice. You two know each other so well, and you know…crush city, man.”

“I don’t have a crush.”

Isaak laughs. “It couldn’t be more obvious than if you put up a ten-foot sign.

But more than that, Demyan is family to you.

And Alina… Look, real talk, if this grandfather put that in his will, I’m betting he’ll have some kind of test or vetting th ing in place.

Alina lights you up. She makes you different, and if you told me you guys were getting married, I’d believe it. ”

“He isn’t asking me to make a love match. He wants me to find someone with bratva ties and marry them for twelve months.”

“Okay,” Isaak says, “but that still makes her the perfect choice. Yegorov is a powerhouse, and you know it. If there’s a vetting, it’ll be over the validity of a union between two bratva houses. Obvious. Choice.”

“Or I let it go and don’t play his game.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Alina’s off the table.”

“Your funeral.”

When Isaak rings off, I can’t get his words out of my head.

Yes, his words about her being perfect make sense, but those aren’t the ones that concern me. If I didn’t have feelings for her, she would be perfect.

No. It’s Isaak pointing out that he knows I crush on her.

And if Isaak’s noticed how into Alina I am, how long until she does?

Or worse…Demyan?