Page 60 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“You’re starting to sound like my father.”

“Only because he’s right,” Matvei replies rather infuriatingly. “You need more in your life than Astra Tyrannis, Phoenix. The hunt is consuming you.”

“If that’s the price I need to pay to take them down, I’m okay with it.”

“What if I’m not?”

I narrow my eyes. “Then you can walk away. That’s not an option for me.”

Matvei sighs and slumps back in his seat. “No, it’s not an option for me, either.”

We stare at each other for a while, neither willing to budge. Two proud men up against a formidable, faceless enemy.

“You have to deal with them at some point, Phoenix,” Matvei says at least, breaking the suffocating silence.

“And I will.”

I know damn well that he’s talking about the girls, not Astra Tyrannis. And he knows that I know that. But it’s easier to pretend that this is all business. That the corrupt pig in the basement is the right place to be focusing my attention.

The women’s room upstairs might as well be full of demons.

“You want a drink?” Matvei asks suddenly, surprising me with the question.

He knows I do my best to avoid drinking. And he usually isn’t the one offering me a drink. But apparently, he thinks the situation is dire enough that it warrants whiskey.

“Yeah. Make it stiff.”

“I’ll be right back,” he says. He gets up and leaves the office.

I grew up with a league of powerful men. All dons in their own right. Each one had an office of their own, exactly like this. And every single one had whiskey within arms’ reach

I’d been the first to break tradition and banish the alcohol from my sight. It was a conscientious decision on my part. A result of one too many drunken nights and foggy mornings.

I was determined to be a don that commanded respect. And that meant resisting the temptation to drink.

But fuck, was it hard to stave off the booze. Especially on mornings when I woke up with Aurora’s name on my lips, having imagined her death in my nightmares.

Or during nights when I walked past the room that used to be Yuri’s nursery and black despair felt like it was choking me out.

Matvei walks back into my office, rescuing me from my thoughts. He’s holding two glasses of deep brown-gold whiskey.

He hands me one of the glasses. We clink the rims together out of habit.

When Matvei sits down, I raise the tumbler to my lips and take a bigger sip than necessary. The taste of the whiskey is deep, dark, and rich. Oak hints humming in harmony with dark caramel undertones.

“Fuck, this shit is good,” I breathe, letting the golden liquid burn my throat as it goes down.

“The best,” Matvei agrees.

“We should do this more often.”

“We would if you ever just stopped,” Matvei points out.

“Is this where you tell me to stop and smell the roses?”

“Something like that.”

I smile. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

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