Page 2 of Fate and Family

Just my boss.

I’ve been stabbed before and it didn’t hurt as much as those three words.

Before I can recover, she twists the knife. “He’s engaged to Sveti.”

Huh?

Uri, who’s been snickering this whole time, pauses, looking as confused as I feel.

“Who?”

Katya wobbles her neck like I’m the insane one. “Sveti. Your fiancée. You know, the one you’ve been engaged to since puberty.”

Oh. “You mean Svetlana?” Sometimes I can’t tell if Katya says this kind of shit because of the language barrier or because she’s insane—or both.

She gives a dismissive flick of her hand and waves me off. “Yeah, her. She seems like a Sveti to me.” She pauses to pour a drink, all muscle memory with little conscious thought happening. “Why? What do you call her?”

“Svetlana.”

“All the time? That’s so many letters.” She hands me the drink and shrugs. “You should shorten it. Sveti works better.”

“That’s not a name.”

“Anything can be a name if you say it with the right emotion.” Katya smiles, but it fades when something at the doorcatches her eye. She stiffens, shoulders straightening and eyes narrowing, aware of what she gauges to be impending danger. “You’ve got company, Boss.”

Three men walk in. They look unassuming, average at best. But my hackles rise the instant their eyes meet mine. Uri stands from his spot at the end of the bar, his casual demeanor replaced by something cold and calculating. He’s silent, but having him near is the comfort I need.

“Evening, gentlemen,” I say, motioning toward the back. “Let’s have this meeting in my office.”

I’ve seen all three from time to time, lurking in the darker corners of my world. There’s no personal conflict here, this is all business.

We leave the bass thumping of the club and head through the dark back hallways to my office. The bright light in the small room is almost jarring when I come here during club hours. I replaced the old bulbs with LEDs a few months ago because I get a headache whenever I read in the low light. Getting old sucks.

Uri follows, leaning against the doorframe as he shuts the door with a soft click. The room feels smaller with our “guests” inside, the tension closing in like a thick fog.

I step behind my desk and motion for the others to take seats. Yullian Volkov sits first. He handles business with brute force when diplomacy fails. His reputation for violence is legendary, but I meet his gaze without flinching. He also has something hanging out of his nose, is it dry skin or dried snot? Either way, it’s hard to focus on anything other than what’s happening on his face, so I train my attention on the next man.

Ivan Petrov is leaner than Yullian, but no less intimidating. And there’s no questionable face debris, so it’s easier to look at him. He has that whole, I’m dangerous like a wolf and my back up plans have back up plans, vibe. But two years ago he locked his keys in a running car and almost got caught by the Omon. Ofcourse, he doesn’t know I know that, so his self-important smirk makes me want to punch him in his face. He drums his fingers against the desk, but it seems to be a rhythm to a song. Whatever it is, Uri notices and hums along under his breath.

Viktor Smirnov stands between the other two because I don’t have any more chairs. Physically, he’s the least commanding, but he’s smart, having proven himself with a lifetime of scores and no record with the Omon to show for it. He’s slippery and stealthy, which makes him the most dangerous man in the room. He’s tapping his foot against my desk.

So much freaking tapping. Are these guys drummers or just annoying?

The one in the middle talks first. For the record, it’s always the one in the middle.

“Last month I spoke with your uncle in America. I didn’t like his response. I met with your father a few days ago.” His voice is smooth, but carries an edge.

I lace my fingers together and settle into my high-back chair, keeping my expression neutral. “Oh, really? And how did that go?”

Viktor frowns, the lines on his face deepening. “Not as good as we had hoped.”

“I see.”

He puts his hands on my desk and leans in. Ugh, his sweaty hands are already leaving prints on the varnish. “Your brother wasn’t helpful either.” Viktor’s eyes narrow, perhaps sensing the resolve in my posture. He shrugs, the movement slow and deliberate. “You’ve always been the reasonable one in your family.”

He reaches inside his coat pocket, and the shift is immediate. My hand slides toward my gun and Viktor freezes, raising an eyebrow at me before continuing, his voice calm. “I’m going tomake a generous offer. You’ll be on the ground floor, the first family to get the product. You’ll be kings.”

“We already are,” I counter, my voice steady.

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