Page 8 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

I snort. “We aren’t boogeymen. I’m not just going to let them run free on the streets. That’s exactly what got Fedor locked up. We only strike when provoked.”

Petr nods, and I can tell by the tension in his shoulders that he disagrees.

“What is it?” I groan. “Just say it.”

He folds his hands, thumbs tapping together. “Your father scared people so they knew what to expect if they crossed him. Perhaps, under your style of leadership, people are forgetting what those consequences look like. Perhaps,” he continues, “it would work better if you reminded them every so often.”

I’ve spent the last five years of my life thinking only about the Bratva. Focusing solely on what would be best for this criminal family of mine. Everything seemed to be trending towards the positive… until Fedor got himself locked up. Suddenly, doubts are creeping in. At the first sign of trouble, my men want to return to the lifestyle that got their previous leader shot between the eyes by a rival.

Maybe I should remind them of that. I have my father’s autopsy pictures locked away in a drawer somewhere. Perhaps I should remind them what his style of leadership led to.

“Sorry,” Petr says. “I mean no disrespect.”

I wave away his concern. Maybe I should be angry, but I’m not. I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting to keep hold of a Bratva that seems reluctant support me, and I’m damn tired of cleaning up the messes of a brother who refuses to see the error of his ways.

Speaking of Fedor, my phone buzzes, alerting me to my next meeting. “Shit,” I mumble, grabbing my phone and dismissing the alarm. “I need to go.”

Petr nods and holds open my office door for me. He walks next to me down the hall and out to the driveway. Before ducking into his own car, he lifts a hand and calls out, “Tell Fedor hi for me.”

I give him a nod and get into my car. The prison is twenty minutes away and my weekly hour-long visit starts in fifteen. Fedor won’t be pleased I’m late, but then again, after the twenty-four hours I’ve had, Fedor can fuck off.

* * *

“You’re late.”Fedor is already sitting at a table, hands folded in front of him, his wrists shackled. Beneath the table, his ankles are shackled, too.

The first time I came to see him, he was unshackled, and he jumped over the table and ran for the door when another inmate’s wife and kids opened the door to come into the visitation room. He didn’t even make it halfway across the room before three guards were on him, screaming and pinning him to the floor. Hence, the shackles.

“You had only to walk down a hallway to get here,” I say, scraping the metal chair legs across the concrete floor and sitting down. “Outside, there’s such a thing as traffic. Do you remember it?”

Fedor lifts his middle finger, the metal chains jangling as he does so. “Did you bring me any money?”

“I sent it last week. It should be in your account by now.”

“Good. Commissary is tomorrow, and I need a new pair of shower shoes.”

It’s strange to hear my brother talk about prison life as though it’s the weather. To hear how normal it has become for him. “Didn’t your lawyer mention you finding a job in here?”

Fedor’s face darkens. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

I shrug. “Too busy with your other extracurricular activities?”

He snorts, top lip pulled back in a sneer. “I may not have my freedom, but I have my dignity.”

“And if you had a job, you’d have money,” I argue.

“That’s what you’re for.” He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and smiles.

Fedor has never had a job. Not once in his entire life. My father pushed me to get a job as soon as I turned sixteen. Even though the plan was always for me to take over the family business, he wanted me to know what it meant to work. Fedor never got those same lessons.

By the time Fedor was sixteen, I was already working for the Bratva, and my father knew I’d take over after him. So, why waste time with Fedor?

That was his thought, anyway. His children were solely to be used for his own personal gain. So long as we could help him, we mattered. Fedor, unfortunately, didn’t have much to offer Dad, so Dad didn’t have much to offer him either.

Maybe that’s why I have always been the closest thing he has had to a father figure. Maybe it’s why I’m still the one taking care of him to this day. God knows Dad would not have visited him in prison and given him a monthly allowance for shower slippers and snacks.

“How are things?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

“Amazing,” he says. “Better than ever. I’m having the time of my life.”

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