Page 10 of Sexting My Bratva Boss (Mafia Silver Foxes #1)

Konstantin

O lena walks across the construction site like an angel of death.

The men stop what they’re doing in her wake, but none of them dare look at her.

There are many rumors about Olena Belov.

That she killed a man in Prague with a sugar spoon.

That she was trained by the Spetsnaz, the special forces, but was abused—and took her pound of flesh for it.

That she burned down a safehouse from the inside, and walked out of the smoke once the flames died out.

That she broke a man’s spine so precisely, he lived for two more days, convinced that she would come for him at any moment.

I’m the only one who knows whether or not there is truth to any of these rumors. And I’ll never tell. If anyone in my organization has a chance against me—it’s her.

Her head is shaved, brows so pale they seem nonexistent, and her blue eyes are striking against porcelain skin.

Her strange, ethereal features stand out all the more against the all-black ensemble she insists on wearing.

She moves purposefully across the littered ground despite the stilettos she wears.

Putting the sledgehammer head-down, I lean on the handle and wait for my sentence.

“Konstantin.”

“Olena. I’m surprised to see you here.”

Her eyes scan the site. It’s a mess, and it smells like trash and the wet water of the sound. But in nine months there’ll be forty-two condos. Mid-level, mid-income, and empty—unless someone is in need of a safehouse.

“There,” I gesture, toward a roughed-out concrete pad. “That will be the main office. Passports and papers. And the laundry rooms—” another, much smaller, concrete pad with the makings of an electric line, “for laundering, of course.”

Olena tries to look interested, but she’s distracted.

Which means she’s found out.

She’s found her.

“Can we talk? Preferably somewhere with four walls enclosing us?”

The men know better than to murmur, but they’re beginning to cluster. They’ve become so used to me visiting the sites, throwing on a high-vis vest, and shoveling or sawing or destroying. It’s interesting that a visit from Olena is what sets them on edge.

“Rein’s. Let’s go.”

Rein’s Deli is as packed as always. It smells of pastrami, pickles, and diner coffee. Olena gets less glances here than at the construction site; I blend in perfectly in work pants and a sweat-stained shirt.

“Mr. Martynov,” greets the chef.

“Spencer. Your boss around?”

“No, not today, sir. He’s at his daughter’s basketball game. I can call him?—”

“No, no. I just wanted to check that the issue with the health department was taken care of.”

“It was sir. Thank you. Your usual?”

“Yes, please. And whatever Olena would like.”

Olena browses the menu, making an impossibly quick decision: “Kippered salmon salad and stuffed cabbage.”

Spencer nods and gets to work, calling the order out to his prep and sous chefs.

We settle into a booth, Olena’s long legs stretched to the side, ankles crossed.

“What exactly are you doing?” The question is mild, but direct.

“I am starting a family,” I tell her. “A legacy.”

She snorts. “A family? Does that seem like a good idea to you, Konstantin, considering where you came from?”

My brother Mikhail’s face flashes through my mind; the look he gave me the day I left.

The fact that I never saw him when I returned.

“I know it’s hard to believe, Olena, but it doesn’t have to be like that.”

Her features harden. The coffee arrives and the conversation goes quiet until the server steps away respectfully.

One thing I don’t know about Olena is her family situation.

I’ve heard talk that she was an orphan, that her uncle traded her for drugs, that she still has sisters somewhere.

She’s never chosen to share that information with me, and I will never pry.

Having Olena on my side is safer than having her as an enemy.

“Have you thought about how vulnerable this will make you? Having a wife?—”

“I don’t intend to marry her.”

Her smirk is slow, making my stomach clench in annoyance.

“Oh, so you’re just using her? Isn’t she a bit young for you, Konstantin?”

“She’s a surrogate. She’ll give me a child, and then we have an agreement. She’ll leave New York.”

“Mmm. Do you know many men who house their surrogates in expensive houses? Who assign entire teams of men to watch after them, keep them safe?”

I put the coffee cup down with a loud crack. Olena doesn’t flinch, but she taps her nails on the tabletop, a sign that she senses how on edge I am.

“What would you have me do, Olena? Who will take over for me? I’m old already, almost fifty, and I have no legacy. Can you name someone else in the group who should succeed me?”

She bites her tongue as our food arrives.

There is no one. We both know that.

Should she suggest herself, I’d be open to it. But Olena wants to lead Martynov Global Holdings as much as she wants to saw out her own spleen. Olena is a raven; smart, resourceful, too clever to get stuck in a corner. She wants an out, always.

“There are other things you should be worrying about, Konstantin. Like Giuseppe Sartorre.”

That gets my attention. “What about Sartorre? He’s minding his business, staying on his side of the city.”

“Is he?”

The casual lilt to her words makes me freeze.

Have I missed something, in my haze of desire these past few months? Has something—or someone—slipped through the cracks?

“Tell me.”

Olena leans back, picking at the flaked salmon and rye bread. “Two men were killed at the Lux last week. Two of ours. We have reason to believe it was Sartorre, or at least men working for him.”

“What reason?”

“The camera shows one of them with a tattoo of a compass pointing north on his forearm.”

The Northern Line.

Giuseppe Sartorre’s gang. Though “gang” makes them sound trivial. He’s an offshoot of the Italian mob, controlling a large portion of the northern part of the city.

And it sounds like his men have weaseled their way into my territory.

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“When should we have told you? While you were fucking her in your office, or picking out paint for the house?”

I snarl across the table, ignoring the Reuben in front of me. “I wasn’t fucking her in my office. I should have been told. I should come down on you, Olena, for not making sure I was told.”

She stares at me, waiting—for punishment or mercy. I know what I should do, but Olena is the closest thing to family I have. She’s a weak spot.

Someday she might kill me, and I might let her. The sister I never had.

Mikhail’s face flashes through my mind again. And then my mother, screaming in Russian: Go then! Get out of here, you rat! You’ve been living off my teat for long enough!

Ironic, since as soon as I began making money in America, it was she who lived off me.

“A child won’t fix things,” Olena says as if reading my mind. “Only create complications.”

“I have things under control. Audrey Wolfe will give me a child, and he or she will be raised within the empire, Olena. Their life will be different than mine—than ours was. And someday, they will lead.”

She doesn’t look convinced. But my tone brooks no argument. Still, I feel compelled to give her something. To justify my obsession with Audrey.

“Someone used her to get into my accounts, Olena. If you’re truly concerned about Giuseppe Sartorre, let me get what I can out of her. She may be the key to why he’s snooping around our territory. I just need to break her.”

“I hope you’re right, Konstantin. If you aren’t…”

She doesn’t need to finish that sentence.

If I’m wrong, Audrey Wolfe could be the death of me.

If I’m not, I could have it all—everything I want.

Her.

A child.

Complete control over my future, my territory, my story.

I won’t go into that final night the ragged boy that was spit out of Russia. I won’t be the weak, good-for-nothing man that my mother insisted I was.

No; I’ve made it this far.

I have everything.

But I want more. And I’ll take what I want. Destroying whoever stands in my way.