Page 9 of Savage Bratva King

“I will smile when I have something to smile about.”

“Says the man who has everything.”

She stands aside and waits for me to step inside first. The conversation is over, and as usual, she had the last word. It’s a skill that both sisters have perfected over the years, and one which irritates me more than I have ever let on. To anyone.

In the foyer, the polished marble floor gleams like a mirror, reflecting the light bouncing off the heavy crystal chandelier hanging high above our heads. The walls are polished wooden panels, each object on display chosen for its jewel-like vibrancy and history. Two Fabergé eggs, one in sapphire blue with an elaborate golden filigree design, the other in gold and silver. There are goblets and plates, imperial statuettes, and glossy feline ornaments studded with diamonds. My mother’s personal collection, and the only part of the house in which my father has no input.

My mother makes a grand entrance on the sweeping staircase wearing a floor-length ivory gown, the collar encrusted with tiny shimmering gems.

“Leonid.” Her face lights up as she approaches me and presents her cheeks for me to kiss. “And Tamara. Look at you. You grow more beautiful with every passing day.” She pinches Tamara’s cheeks leaving behind the imprint of her fingernails on the pale flesh.

“Thank you, Mama.” Anyone else would’ve had their hand batted away before it came anywhere near Tamara’s face, but she accepts my mother’s greeting with reverence and respect.

We have never spoken about what fate might’ve befallen them had I not discovered the twins in the shipping container that day. But they remember enough. That kind of childhood can never be erased.

“Leonid.” My mother’s eyes glitter. “Your father?—”

“Is right here.”

My father emerges from his study, a fine mist of dirty-brown smoke from his stogie clinging to his immaculate black suit. It is the aroma that I have always associated with my father. His hair is gray but still thick. His face is craggier than it used to be, the grooves on his forehead like ruts on an unmade road, but he is still a handsome and imposing man.

I incline my head in his direction. “Father.”

They did not demand my presence at dinner for my pleasant company. Invitations to the Ivanov home are extended solely at the head of the family’s discretion, and usually when he has a demand or a warning to deliver.

He leads the way to the dining room where the table is set for four. My siblings are either not invited, or they have made their excuses to be elsewhere tonight because they know what this is all about.

Crystal bowls filled with ice contain tiny dishes of caviar, fish roe, and chopped egg yolk; a silver platter is filled with various types of homemade bread sliced into perfect miniature triangles. Valentina, my parents’ maid, fills our glasses with water, and my father dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

Tamara dutifully keeps her head down. My father is the first to help himself to food; once he has filled his plate, the rest of us are free to eat. I’ve lost my appetite, but I spoon caviar onto my plate and take some sourdough bread from the platter before filling a smaller glass with ice-cold vodka.

My father chews slowly and swallows. It is a habit that he has carried with him since he took over as Pakhan from his own father, this unhurried enjoyment of food as if every morsel might be his last. I scoop caviar onto the toasted bread, stuff the whole lot into my mouth, and swallow without tasting it. I am a busy man, and I have no time for unnecessary foreplay.

He washes his food down with neat vodka and sits back in his seat. I can feel his anger emanating like molten lava from his pores. “Talk to me, Leonid.”

Tamara continues to chew her food, but her hackles are up like a cat sensing the approach of a ferocious dog. She wouldn’t dare to disrespect me or my father, but she and Ivana have spent their entire lives in fight-or-flight mode. It’s a tough habit to crack.

“We lost more men today.” I refill my vodka glass and study the clear liquid. I can feel the burn before I raise it to my lips. “So, I am doing what I do best: I am ensuring that I am the winner in this war against the Sicilians.”

My father’s expression is neutral. His movements when he raises his eyes from his vodka glass to me are slow and purposeful. “By abducting the youngest Sedric daughter.” He blinks slowly like a lizard basking in the sun. “Did you or did you not just say that we are at war with the Sicilians?”

“Correct, father.”

“So, please explain to me what the fuck you are doing.” His tone is neutral too, low and measured leaving the emphasis on his words.

“She is Sedric’s printzessa.” I match his tone. “She is also Xander’s sister-in-law. Melissa will do whatever it takes to protect her baby sister from the way of life they were born into, and what Melissa wants, Melissa gets. Or so I’ve heard.”

My father processes this information. “The plan?”

“The plan is to make sure that I deliver baby Sedric to her brother-in-law, shall we say a little more tainted than she was when she arrived.”

My mother gasps out loud. Tamara suppresses a smirk that no one else notices.

“Tainted?” My father grips his glass so tightly I wait for it to crack. “Fucking tainted? This is your plan to win the war?”

“She is a bargaining tool. Leverage. No more than that. She is pledged to the Irish contingent. A potential ally against the Sicilians if I choose not to corrupt her completely.”

“Leonid.” My mother releases a sigh and rubs her left temple the way she always does when she is trying to resolve a minor problem in her head. “We did not raise you to be the kind of man who corrupts innocent women.”

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