“Anything?” I ask, glancing towards Demyan.
“Radio silence,” he reports. “It looks like Rob finally took you seriously.”
“What about the plants in my clubs?”
“They’ve been removed. The FBI seems to have backed off us.”
I snort. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
Demyan sighs. “Can’t you just accept the fact that you won?”
“No. It was too easy.”
“Most people would celebrate, you sourpuss.”
“I saw the look in that motherfucker’s eyes,” I tell Demyan. “I know the man. He’s not going to just disappear. Especially since I have his sister.”
“Great point. Remind me, why do you still have his sister?” Demyan asks.
“Because I need to make sure he is taking me seriously.”
I’m growing impatient. I shouldn’t have to explain any of this. Especially to Demyan. He’s trying to draw something else out of me. I despise playing these games with him, but the bastard loves it.
“Is that why?” Demyan probes. “Or did it have something to do with her dimples and that sweet ass?”
I give him a warning glare. “Keep your eyes to yourself or I’ll pluck them out.”
“Hmm,” Demyan remarks. “Possessive. Interesting.”
“You’re like a fucking dog with a bone,” I snap. “Are you focusing on this to distract from your own shit?”
His face sours instantly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It was your weekend with Callie, wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Don’t think I don’t know that you’re deflecting, asshole,” he warns.
I smile. “Two can play at this game. Answer the damn question.”
“Yeah,” he says irritably. “It was my fucking weekend.”
“And?”
“Miranda’s serious about this move. We talked after I dropped Callie off.”
“You want me to talk to her?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Maybe. She has always had the hots for you. You might be more convincing than me.”
“I know; it’s the only reason she looked twice at you. Because you were sitting right next to me that day.”
“Ah, go fuck yourself, you smug bastard.” He flashes his middle finger at me.
My smile fades. “The offer is a serious one, though,” I tell him. “I’ll do what must be done.”
“I know,” he says gratefully. “But it’s not necessary. I can handle this on my own.”
Something in his tone sounds dangerous, feral. “Don’t go Bratva on her,” I advise. “Bad move.”
“Why the hell not?”
I shake my head. “Because that’s the fastest way to make her double down on this decision. She left you because you were too Bratva, Demyan. You need to prove to her that you can be more than that.”
“Blasphemous words, coming from you.”
“I’m a realist,” I say. “And I know women.”
“Apparently, not all women.” Demyan throws me a smile. I ignore it completely. But of course he pushes on. “Have you spoken to her since the big day?”
“Don’t ask me questions you already know the answers to.”
He smirks. “Well, there might have been a conjugal visit or two that I wasn’t around for.”
“I didn’t marry her for the sex.”
“That’s just a delightful bonus, huh?”
“We haven’t fucked since we got married.”
“You’re subscribing to the traditional Bratva formula, then? Sexless marriages and unhappy wives. A tale as old as time.”
“Doing it the other way didn’t work out for you, did it?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
There’s a knock on the door. I glance at the clock and sigh. As late as it is, the days are never over when you’re don.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens. Pyotr is standing there. His imposing figure takes up most of the threshold. He has a habit of lurking in doorways that I’ve spent years trying to break, to no avail.
“Come in, Pyotr,” I emphasize impatiently.
He trudges in and stops a few feet away from us with his head bowed. It’s his way of showing me respect, but I don’t need the formalities that my father insisted on. I know I have the respect of my men without all the damn melodrama.
“Sir,” he says to the floor beneath his feet, “I just thought I should let you know that the madam is on her way out.”
I frown, glancing at the Rolex on my wrist. “At this time?”
“She, um… well—”
“Spit it out, man,” Demyan growls.
“She’s dressed to kill,” Pyotr says, sounding supremely uncomfortable.
I exchange a glance with Demyan and then give Pyotr a nod. “Tell her to stop in before she leaves.”
The discomfort on his face only gets more pronounced, but he bows stiffly and backs out of the room.
The moment the door snaps shut, Demyan turns to me with curiosity. “Your mother leaving the house is newsworthy enough to report to the boss?”
“I asked Pyotr to keep tabs on her.”
Demyan raises his eyebrows. “Why in God’s name would you do that?”
“She’s been restless lately,” I explain. “And she’s been known to make poor decisions in the past. I don’t want her running amok when the FBI is still watching me.”
“You think they’ll try to get to you through her?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” I muse. “She’s the only one who moves in society outside of Bratva circles.”
“Good point.”
“You better get a move on before she shows,” I tell him. “It won’t be pretty.”
“Right,” he says, grabbing his glass and downing the last of the tequila we’ve been sipping. “Fuck, that’s strong.” He stops at the door and turns to me again. “She’s not going to be happy to know you’re spying on her.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t give a shit.”
He smirks. “Some things never change.”
A few minutes after he shuts the door, it swings open again and my mother walks in. Pyotr was right—she is dressed to the nines in a black cashmere dress wrapped tight around her body. There’s a shimmer to the fabric that gives it an extra lift and her heels are black and sequined.
She’s also wearing a lot of makeup. Too much. She looks like a woman desperate to reverse the aging process.
“Nice dress,” I comment.
She flinches slightly, sensing the subtle reprimand in my tone. “Thank you.”
“It’s maybe a little young for you, though.”
A brief flash of hurt flickers across her face before she controls it. “Is there a reason I was summoned, Aleksandr?”
“Where are you going?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Why does anyone ask a question? Because I’d like to know.”
“It’s not any of your business.”
She’s like a petulant teenager trying to assert her independence. I am aware of the ironic role reversal, but I don’t have the time to handle her with care. I’ve got shit to do and I don’t need to be worried about who my mother is fraternizing with in the meantime.
“Everything is my business,” I point out. “Especially since you live in my house.”
Her jaw goes rigid. I know she hates when I point that out. “Is this your way of asking me to leave?”
“Not at all. You’re welcome here, but that means you have a rulebook to follow.”
“Ah,” she says. “So your wife is not the only one under your thumb, then. It extends to all the women in your life.”
“Funny you should bring up my wife. I was told you visited her this morning.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t have my permission.”
“I didn’t think I needed it.”
“You need my permission for everything,” I growl. “I thought that was understood.”
She takes a deep breath and sets her jaw stubbornly. “I have no place in your Bratva, Aleksandr. My opinion no longer matters and I have accepted that. So I’m trying to live a life outside of it.”
“That’s precisely what I’m afraid of.”
“Why?” she demands. “What do you take me for?”
“A woman desperate for attention.”
She rears back as though I’ve slapped her. “For God’s sake, my son, what have I done to deserve this kind of treatment?”
“I am not singling you out,” I tell her. “This is not personal. I have a Bratva to protect. I know you know a lot about that.”
“Not recently.”
“You know enough,” I hiss. “I don’t want you fraternizing with people who can use the information you give them against me.”
“I am not some doe-eyed idiot,” she hisses right back. “I know what to say and what not to. And it might shock you to know that I don’t talk about you at all.”
I smirk in obvious disbelief. “Is that a fact?”
“Are you really going to begrudge me a personal life?”
“Is there someone special I should know about?” I ask innocently.
“Perhaps,” she says after a moment’s hesitation. “But it’s too early to tell.”
“Does he know who you are? Who you really are?”
“He knows only that I come from a rich family,” she says.
“That’s an understatement.”
“I could correct that notion, but you don’t want me to talk about the family or the Bratva. I thought we just covered that ground.”
“The family and the Bratva are one and the same,” I remind her.
“Of course,” she sighs. “But I am not really a part of either one, am I?”
“That depends on you.”
“No,” she says. “That depends on you.”
I leave that alone. Mostly because I can’t in good faith deny it. It’s been easier having my mother out of things.
“I won’t stand in the way of your social life,” I say. “I just expect you to be careful about who you associate with. The FBI may be quiet now, but it’s only been a few days. We can’t know for sure if they’ve really dropped the investigation yet.”
“I understand.”
“Good,” I say. “Just out of curiosity, does this new man know about your… situation?”
She purses her lips. She hates when I bring it up, and despite my usual irreverence, I try not to for that reason.
But this time, it merits asking.
“He knows,” she answers softly. “And he doesn’t care.”
I smile. “Of course not. Does his wife know about you, though?”
Her eyes go cold instantly. “Goodnight, son.”
She bustles out. The door snaps shut. I grab my drink and down it in one gulp. When I’m done, I wait only long enough to make sure I won’t bump into my mother again.
Then I head upstairs to see my wife.
When I walk in, I find her lying on her belly on the floor. She’s sketching something into the foot of the wall with a stub of a pencil that looks like it’s on its last leg.
Then I glance around and understand why.
The white walls have been transformed.
“Jesus Christ.”
Olivia gasps, twisting around so fast she hits her head against the same wall she’s defacing with her drawings. When she sees me, she stumbles to her feet, holding her pathetic little pencil like a weapon.
“What have you done to my walls?”
She stares at me for a moment. Then her jaw loosens and that familiar bratty fire flares in her eyes. “I improved them.”
“Is that what you call it?”
My eyes latch on to the drawing of myself next to the bed. She’s drawn me behind an uncanny image of Pyotr. The expression on my face is less than flattering.
I make a quick scan of the room, noticing other images, other characters. Some of them I recognize; most of them I don’t. I ignore the speech bubbles—no good can come of getting riled up about her juvenile jabs—and turn back to face Olivia.
“You’ve been keeping busy during our little détente, it seems.”
She cocks her hip to the side and glares at me. “What do you want?”
She’s lost weight. I notice the way her collarbones stick out, the way her cheeks have hollowed in. It makes me wonder if I’ll still see those dimples of hers if she smiles or if I’ve stolen those from her, too.
Though with the way things are going, I doubt a smile is very likely.
“I wanted to reassure you,” I tell her. “This marriage is legal, but it doesn’t have to be forever.”
She frowns. “Why does that sound like a promise you have no intention of keeping?”
“Once your brother backs off, and once I have certain assurances from him, you will be able to get back to your life.”
Her eyes flash with nebulous hope. “Great. Grand. Fabulous. When will that be?”
“I have to make sure he’s serious,” I tell her. “Let’s call it one year from now.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a generous estimate. I will hold onto you for a year to make sure your brother stays good on his word.”
“You expect me to stay here for an entire fucking year?”
“Did I stutter, kiska?”
“That’s… I… I can’t.”
“Why ever not?” I ask with saccharine fake sweetness. “It’s not like you had much of a life to go back to. In case you’ve forgotten, you were a freelancer who was between jobs. Your friends were mostly colleagues who never bothered phoning after the work day ended. You have no boyfriend, no lovers, not even a pet to miss you. So tell me: who exactly is waiting for you back in New York?”
Her skin is flushed with anger. “Who are you to decide my life was worthless?” she rages. “It was lonely, but it was mine. I liked it.”
I shrug. “You can just as easily be lonely here.”
“My family—”
“Your family will be safe from me,” I tell her. “Just as long as you play the part of my wife for the year you live in this house.”
“Convenient,” she spits. “How beautifully this worked out for you. Not only can you control my brother using me, you can control me using my family.”
“Isn’t it lovely how things work out sometimes?”
“Was this your plan from the beginning?”
“Not in so many words. But I’m adaptable.”
She breathes deeply. Her eyes are locked on me, but I can see the gears turning in her mind. Searching for a loophole she won’t find.
Finally, she sighs. “Fine. I’ll stay here for a year. I won’t fight. I’ll be the obedient wife. But my family is off-limits.”
I nod. “Agreed.”
“Happy now?” she asks bitterly.
“Not quite,” I say. “There’s something else I want from you.”
