Page 28 of BRATVA'S Avenging Bride
He shakes his head from side to side. "He's going to lose his mind."
"Probably." I straighten my cuffs, check my watch. "But he'll come around."
"And if he doesn't?"
I meet his eyes. "Then I'll make him."
The door opens before I can knock. My father's assistant, a severe woman named Melinda who's worked for him for twenty years, nods at me with what might be sympathy. Or pity. With Melinda, it's hard to tell.
"He's expecting you," she says.
The office is exactly as I remember from childhood: dark wood, leather chairs, the smell of expensive cigars and older money. My father sits behind his massive desk, a glass of vodka already poured despite it being ten in the morning. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Sit."
I remain standing. Small rebellion, but rebellion nonetheless.
He finally raises his eyes. Piotr Bogdanov at sixty-three is still a formidable man. Silver hair slicked back, shoulders broad despite his age, eyes that have watched men die and slept soundly after. Those eyes study me now, calculating, measuring, finding me wanting as they always do.
"The fire," he says without preamble. "You told me it was an accident. I don't believe you."
"That was the conclusion of the Fire Chief. Besides, Boris was running a trafficking operation. Minors. Children being sold to the highest bidder under our name."
His jaw tightens minutely. That's the only sign I get that the information disturbs him. "And you have proof of this?"
"I have his records. Flight manifests. Bank transfers. Photos." I pull out my phone, queue up the file, slide it across the desk. "Everything you need to know about what he was doing in that club."
He doesn't touch the phone immediately. Instead, he pours another vodka, drinks it in one swallow. Then he picks up my phone and scrolls through the evidence. His face remains impassive, but I know him well enough to see the fury simmering beneath the surface.
"This is unacceptable," he says finally, setting the phone down with deliberate care. "Boris brought shame on this family. On our name."
"He did," I agree.
"So you had him killed."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. I didn't."
His eyes snap to mine. "Then who?"
"No one. The fire was an electrical fault. Boris should have paid more attention to the state of the club." I take a breath and let it out on a huff. “I should have. The club was my responsibility and I left it to Boris to handle thinking I could trust him. I was wrong.”
"Matvey, if someone is eliminating my men without my permission, I need to know who. I need to know if they're a threat."
"There is no threat. Not to us."
"That's not your determination to make."
I step closer to the desk, my hands flat on the polished wood. "Actually, it is. Because I'm claiming responsibility for what happened at that club. The fire, the deaths, all of it. It happened in my territory. It's my problem to solve."
"And have you solved it?"
"I'm working on it."
He laughs, sharp and humorless. "You're working on it. That's what you call harboring a witness? Hiding evidence? Lying to the families?"
My blood runs cold. "How did you—"
"I'm not stupid, Matvey. I know everything that happens in this city. Including the woman you've been keeping in your penthouse for the past—” he looks at his watch like it has been telling him all of my secrets, “week."
