Page 2 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

Maxim

“ I told you so.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Roma replies to our brother.

Elijah, holding a glass of whiskey, relaxes into his chair. He tries to shroud himself in fake innocence, his eyes wide.

Even when I loosen my tie, the choking sensation doesn’t go away.

“I think it went off like a smash.” Elijah sips his liquor.

Roma pinches my cheek. “You made a dashing groom.”

I slap his hand away. My younger, identical twin is the less annoying of my two brothers, but I’m not in the mood for their shitty teasing.

It doesn’t help when Elijah points out, “You agreed to this.”

I steadily ignore Roma’s curious eyes. He told me point blank only an idiot would agree to marry because our father wished it. Now he’s just watched me marry a stranger.

And not the original stranger I agreed to marry today.

“Good for Marissa.” Elijah swirls his liquor, lifting it to his nose. “Finally got one over on us. ”

“It only works if Marissa thinks she’s gotten one over us.” Our father Lev Zimin appears. Tall, and broad-shouldered, he radiates power. But the friendly voice and easygoing posture often make people second guess his intentions.

Not that he can’t be rigid. Not when it comes to his business, the bratva, and his family.

Help the family, son. That’s all he said and I folded like every other soldier does when Lev Zimin deigns to speak to them.

Roma’s pitying eyes remain on me and I hate it more than Elijah’s over-the-top goofiness.

He’s five years older than me, pushing thirty, and by all means, should’ve been the son getting married. But he laughed at our father and then laughed when I announced my engagement.

Strategic alliances aren’t unheard of. But my grandmother wrinkled her brow when she heard about this one.

She spit out some incoherent noise, waved a hand, and returned to her baking. The questions remained in her eye, though, not that she ever questioned her son about deciding to put up with Marissa, of all people.

She doesn’t belong to the bratva, but she’s wormed her way in. Father must think she’s useful enough.

“It’s not even clever,” Roma says from the chair beside me. His hair is longer than mine and sticks up after raking a hand through it. I don’t know why he’s more nervous than I am.

For the past three years, he’s distanced himself from the family. I’m shocked more by his appearance at my wedding than Marissa’s matchmaking scheming. Then again, our mother probably dragged him here, and if there’s anything we can agree on it’s trying to be nice to her.

“What does she get out of this?” Roma messes with his tumbler of whiskey, barely drinking from it .

Taking off his jacket, Dad shrugs, before rolling up his sleeves and sitting down.

Despite what Marissa thinks, we were expecting something. That’s always the way with these things. Did she want a reaction? She didn’t get one despite the party outside full of gossiping guests and an open bar.

I’d met her daughter a few times. A mousy, untalkative girl, whose dark eyes appear as soulless as mine. Completely unlike the little thing wrapped up under layers of some lacy veil meant to hide her identity. She trembled when I lifted it over her head.

Show nothing. It’s how I was raised. It’s how I live.

I turned to the priest and married the girl.

Elijah refills his glass. “You know you could divorce her.”

Dad scoots a glass toward him. His son obliges, filling it up. “We don’t divorce.”

Elijah slams the bottle down. “Archaic!”

Dad takes a sip, his eyes on the ceiling, possibly praying.

“It’s the twenty-first century,” Elijah continues. “If the man wants a divorce, let him divorce.”

Roma wiggles in his seat, spiking my annoyance. He doesn’t need to be worried on my behalf.

Dad notices. “You’re taking this awfully calmly.”

Music filters in from the party outside. An hour ago I got married. I probably should feel something other than apathetic.

“She’s good looking.” Dad drinks his whiskey.

“She’s fine.”

Brown hair, hazel eyes. The definition of average. She’s not as curvy as I prefer, but I like the way she trembled when I pulled the veil over her head.

Oh, you think you’re trapped? Welcome to the club.

I pick up my glass, draining it .

“You could always put a bullet through her head,” Elijah suggests.

“Elijah!” Roma snaps.

My brother, or rather half-brother, doesn’t care.

Sometimes our father doesn’t know what to do with him and that’s saying something.

But Elijah is the type of guy who could drink a glass of whiskey while those in front of him are slaughtered.

I imagine the police would arrive and he’d pretend to pick a piece of lint off while asking, “What do you think happened?”

He takes nothing seriously, while simultaneously taking everything too seriously. It’s all an act, my brother. What appears to be silly is ruthless. He’s five steps ahead because he planned the entire game out.

For a long time, I assumed Dad let Elijah get away with anything. But really it’s because the great Lev Zimin, the man who brings other criminal syndicates to their knees, doesn’t actually know how to deal with his own son.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” I say into my glass before remembering it’s empty. I slide it toward him, silently asking for a refill.

“Death before divorce.” The liquor splashes into the glass before he pushes it back. “Our family’s greatest motto.”

“I don’t think this is the best man speech Max wanted,” Roma mutters.

“Probably best the new wife hears it upfront,” Elijah says into his whiskey.

He’s not wrong. My grandfather came up with the motto, after being forced into a marriage with Irina.

It turned out well for him, though, with my grandmother being the stronger of the two.

Everything he did, he did with my grandmother’s help.

He died when I was young, but his love for his wife never diminished during their forty-year marriage.

Supposedly, my dad had the same type of glowing, sappily stupid love with Emma, Elijah’s mother.

The British woman came to NYU to study, never expecting to fall for the heir of the bratva.

But she did and produced the hellion known as Elijah before an aggressive form of cancer ripped her from our father.

I’m not under any illusion my dad feels the same type of love for my mom, but he’s loyal to her.

There are no mistresses, no belittling. Occasionally, there’s some eye-rolling.

A lot of eye-rolling, but the Zimin men respect their wives.

The marriage alliances due to bratva politicking might be a bit unconventional but we’re not the type of men to bring shame due to divorce.

We handle our shit.

“What’s her name?” A minute later, Roma asks, “You did ask her name right?”

“No.”

Dad rubs his nose, pushing his glass toward my brother again. At this rate, we won’t make it back out to the reception.

“Bold of you to leave her out there on her own,” Elijah notes.

She’ll manage. Or learn to.

Roma’s eyes are on me again. You sure about this, brother?

I do what I’ve done every time he’s asked me that the past few years. I ignore him.

Roma might want out of our life, but I don’t. If the girl, whoever she is, stood there and got married, then that’s not my problem. It’s hers. And she’ll learn that if she has to.

“Come on, aren’t you the least bit curious?” Elijah goads. “I mean you married a psychopath.”

“I think you’re referring to yourself.” Roma loosens his tie.

My older brother slides his glass between his hands. “She married a stranger, a Zimin no less.”

“Seriously, Eli—” Roma’s knee bounces .

Elijah double downs as a shit-stirrer till the end. “There’s only three reasons she’d marry you. Because she wants to die, she’s a psychopath or because Marissa has something on her.”

Warily, Dad leans back into his seat.

“Or maybe she’s one of Marissa’s whores.”

I lunge over the table, yanking Elijah’s tie.

Face red, he laughs. “Look at that. Already protective.”

“All right, enough,” Dad orders. “Imagine if the wedding photographer got a shot of that.”

“Is she one of Marissa’s whores?” Roma asks our dad quietly.

“I don’t know where the fuck she came from.” He shrugs before turning to me. “I suggest you figure it out.”

It used to be we couldn’t go outside without extensive background checks on anyone we might come into contact with. Now my wife could strangle me in my sleep and he could care less.

Music grows louder and then dims as a door shuts.

“Is this where the real party is happening?”

Uncle Dima ties with Elijah for being a man of many contradictions. But their styles are wildly different.

Elijah hides his psychopath tendencies behind amusing smiles and three-piece suits.

Uncle Dima is often mistaken for my father’s driver. And he’s technically the older brother.

He’s never cared about Dad taking the lead. He loves his family, loves his job, and is the most loyal motherfucker you’ll meet.

His style, though. . . maybe he should take after Elijah in that regard because he showed up to my wedding in a pair of dark jeans, a zip-up jacket, and a hat covering his eyes.

When he lifts it, running a hand over thick hair, he appears slightly younger, but my uncle is forever the type to appear exhausted.

He drops into a seat, clapping Roma on the shoulder.

My brother takes it as his cue to go. Not that he doesn’t love Dima—everyone has a giant soft spot for the man—but because he knows this conversation has gone from consoling his twin to talking business.

And Roma never wants to talk business anymore.

He claps my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your new wife company while you deal with whatever this is.”

I push him off me, but the asshole slaps the back of my head.

Elijah’s chair scrapes against the floor. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Sit down,” our father orders.

He plunks down, sighs, and pours yet another whiskey.

“Steady there.” Dad is hardly the type to worry about overindulging in alcohol, but Elijah’s jovial mood feels different than normal. I found him here, drinking by himself when I arrived. Like he wanted to avoid the crowd outside.

Or perhaps someone who came to celebrate the wedding.

“You keep drinking like that, you’re gonna make an idiot of yourself on the dancefloor,” Dima says mildly.

Elijah pauses, blue eyes twinkling.

Dad takes the bottle out of his hand, sliding it over to Dima.

“May I congratulate you,” he says, lifting the bottle.

I raise my glass, but I’d rather talk business.

Not that Elijah notices. “Are you sure you want to be cooped up here when you could be with your new wife?”

“Are we preparing anything regarding Marissa?” I ask Dad.

He pauses mid-drink. “Like what?”

Of course. He’s not bothered by Marissa’s shenanigans in the lightest. Before she left the church, we only got a gleeful look and a flash of a sharp smile from her.

What she thinks she accomplished by sabotaging her chances of marrying into the Zimin family is beyond me.

But then again she’s Marissa. She's gotten to where she is by doing what everyone else thought was just head-scratching foolery.

If she thinks she placed a spy in our place, she’s sorely wrong. My new wife will be loyal or it won’t be divorce. It’ll be death.

I have no qualms about getting rid of problems that hurt my family.

“Let it play out, nephew,” Dima advises. He’s a strategist, but by his own admission, he’s shit with relationships. “Marissa thinks she’s pulled something clever. Let her weave her own web.”

“And in the meantime?” Elijah leans forward, tapping his nails to the table.

Uncle Dima shrugs. “Fuck your new wife.”

I don’t know what’s worse. The smug smirk on my brother’s face or my father's.

“What’s going on?” I ask, not interested in discussing my sex life with my family.

Dima understands. “An hour ago Marcs’ head got blown off.”

“What the fuck?” This time my brother is devoid of his normal pageantry. His surprise is as genuine as mine.

My father tightens his knuckles around his glass. He’s known Marcs since they were kids. One of his most loyal associates. He runs—or ran—a diner known for serving the best fucking burger in town. And it laundered plenty of dirty money.

But it was small time. Father shared a genuine friendship with him, not because Marcs was in the big leagues like us.

“Why?” I ask.

The mustache above Dima’s lip dips as he frowns. He’s not a man of many words, so the shadow on his face does most of the talking.

“Who?” Elijah asks, the word clipped .

“A guy called the Ghost,” our uncle replies.

My older brother rolls his eyes. “So now we’re in a comic book?”

Dad doesn’t agree or disagree. “Not the first time a vigilante has come along taking out those they believe should pay for their crimes. But this one is leaving a rather curious trail.”

“The Ghost isn’t a vigilante.” He’s been popping up the past few months. “He’s a hitman.”

“Who put out a hit for Marcs?” Dad asks.

Surprisingly, Marcs didn’t have a lot of enemies.

He was that guy. The loveable, friendly money launder.

Dad toys with the tumbler of whiskey in front of him.

“There’s a pattern here. This Ghost is haunting the city.

Some are legitimate kills, going through the proper channels. But he’s toying the line.”

Dima would normally take him out. But he remains calm in his chair, his shoulders sunken not because he’s sad. His posture’s always shit.

“I want you to set up a meeting,” my father orders.

“With the Ghost?” Elijah asks.

“Go to Ren.”

No wonder he didn’t try to get Roma to stick around. We don’t vocally grumble, but the rolled eyes give our feelings away.

“Go to Ren,” Dad orders again.

“Because that’s always gone well,” Elijah says.

“Do it.” Dad pats his pockets, looking at his brother. Dima pulls out cigars.

“Congratulations, nephew,” he says while handing one to me.

Dad stands up, pulling his jacket back on. “Quit hiding or your mother will start bitching about photos.”

The original Zimin brothers stroll out and I slump in my chair. I don’t know what’s worse—needing to pose for wedding photos like I give a fuck or having to sort out a visit to Ren.

“You know what to do?” Elijah asks.

“We’ll have to go to Fujimori’s.” It’s where all her business is conducted.

He lights the cigar, a puff of smoke releasing into the air. “No, brother. About your wife.”

I know I’m at my wedding, but we don’t have to rehash the fact that I’m married every few minutes.

A smirk curls on his lips. “Fuck her into submission, brother.”