Page 33 of Sexting My Bratva Boss

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 isno 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.”

Thatgets 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!