Page 9 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

I roll my eyes. “If you’re looking for sympathy, you aren’t going to find it here.”

He flips me off again, but this time when he looks away, there’s a sadness there. A loneliness that brings me back to the dark days after Mom’s funeral. Fedor would look up at me every morning like he was afraid I was going to disappear too. I see that same kind of desperation in his expression now, and I feel bad for being harsh with him.

“Sorry.” The word is clumsy, dusty from disuse.

Fedor glances up and then shrugs. “What about you?” he asks. “What are the guys up to?”

Planning my overthrow, I think.

“Causing trouble,” I say instead. A generic answer. “The usual.”

“When is Petr going to get out here to see me?” he asks. “I haven’t seen him at all since I got locked up.”

“You know how he is about prisons.”

Fedor nods and then glances around the room as though only now remembering he should be nervous.

Both of Petr’s older brothers died in prison. They were killed by rivals in a prison attack. It’s one of the many reasons he’s able to sympathize with the men doubting my leadership. He’s just as afraid of going to prison as they are.

“I don’t have any rivals in here,” Fedor says. “Not since you cleared out the Magnani Mafia. Anyone who was loyal to them isn’t anymore. I could probably do some recruiting if you want.”

More members with the same penchant for being arrested as my brother? No thank you. Besides, more bodies mean more men to keep loyal. I’m having a hard enough time with that as it is.

“Nice offer, but no thanks.”

“What? Inmates aren’t good enough for you?” His brows are furrowed, his tone argumentative.

I’m spared having to answer by the arrival of Fedor’s lawyer. Kent worked for my father and has been our family’s legal representative for as long as I can remember. He brought us full-size candy bars on Halloween and attended our birthday parties, always in a black suit as though he was perpetually on his way to a funeral. Considering how many criminals he works for, that wouldn’t be surprising.

I stand up and hug him. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” he says, patting me on the back. Over his bald head, I see the guard against the wall eyeballing us. Physical contact between visitors and inmates is forbidden, but any contact at all is met with scrutiny. The guards are looking for signs that anything illegal is being smuggled in.

“Fedor,” Kent says with a nod of his head. “Good to see you, too.”

“It would be better to see you if it wasn’t across this table,” Fedor says, getting right to the point. “When am I getting out of here?”

“Working on it, working on it,” Kent says in a tone that is impossible to read. There’s a reason he has been our lawyer for so many years. Then he turns to me. “How have things been going on your end?”

“The witness. George McWhateverTheFuck,” Fedor suddenly says, remembering something.

Kent lifts a discreet finger to his lips, but Fedor rolls his eyes and turns back to me.

“Did you take care of that issue?” Kent asks.

“He did,” Fedor says before I can answer. “Didn’t you? That’s what you were doing when I talked to you last night.”

“You two talked?” Kent asks, eyes narrowed.

“On the phone,” Fedor explains.

Kent shakes his head. “No, no. Limit those conversations. They’re all recorded.” Then his face goes even more pale than usual. “Did you say anything about George?”

“No, I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“Agree to disagree,” Fedor snorts, biting back a laugh.

I level him with a glare.

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