Page 9 of Bratva Bastard

Dimitry scoffed, earning a glare from Misha. “Why are we trying to form an alliance withthem? They’ve been rivals to our family for years.”

“Only because our father was a ruthless bastard. And so was Sorokin’s father. Butwe’rethe ones running things now, and Sorokin wants to put the past to rest. He believes we waste more resources and men staying rivals, than if we worked together. And I must admit, I agree with him.”

Dimitry blew out a breath, pouring himself another glass.

“Look,” Misha said, “I’m not saying we need to be friends with them. We aren’t on the playground, goddamnit. This is business. Put aside your hostilities, because we need this alliance. You’re lecturing Maxim for behaving like a child, but look at yourself.”

“Alright, alright,” Dimitry said with a wave of his hand. “You’ve made your point. Can we go, already?”

We drove to Yevgeniy Sorokin’s abode—a fucking huge mansion with at least three floors, if not more. I thought Misha’s home was luxury, but this guy was over the top, to the point where it wastoomuch. It held an arrogance, with its statues in every room (who needed that many statues?) and paintings lining the walls. Was this someone’s home, or an art gallery? But it was nothing compared to the gold embellishments oneverything.Gold outlining the walls, the wainscoting, the decor, the windows. Hell, even the doors had gold on them.

This guy must feel like a damn king. That, or he was compensating for other areas where he lacked. I chuckled quietly at the ridiculous nature of his home, earning me a scolding from Misha. So, like a good brother, I bit my tongue and stifled my laughter.

Usually, I couldn’t care less if someone disliked my behavior, but Misha had been good to me. He took me in, treated me like a brother when the others doubted me. Since the beginning, Misha had treated me with kindness. The least I could do was play along on this business transaction.

One of Sorokin’s men escorted us to his study/office/den. Whatever it was called, it was where we went. It’s funny how these people have such large rooms, enormous homes. Mother and I always made do with what we had. Even after her business grew and we were better off, we still kept the luxuries to a minimum, spending only what we needed.

Well, that’s what shetriedto drill into my head, but I’ve always been rather fond of blowing money on a good time. Even so, I lived within my means, never spending too much. Not that it mattered. My mother’s empire had grown to a rate where the profit far exceeded expenses. In other words, I could afford to have good times. But I knew my limit, and when to draw the line. I could always maintain control.

Sorokin gestured for us to sit down, and we obliged, taking seats in the chairs across from him at a small table. And by small, I mean it could easily seat ten.Rich people…

Yeah, I was wealthy, but there was a difference between rich andfoolish rich,the latter being conceited, self-righteous assholes who thought they shit out diamonds. But I had news for them—their shit stank like the rest of ours, and if they pulled their heads out of their asses long enough, maybe they’d see that.

Sorokin played well the part of a wealthy ruler who treated everyone as equals. He smiled, thanked the servants when they brought him a tray with five drinks—wait, there were only four of us—and he greeted us with an enthusiastic “Welcome!” when we sat down. To anyone else, this may have seemed like a good sign, a good man. But I’d learned that no one can be taken at face value. There was a reason we were rivals.

Sure, Misha claimed that our fathers were the reason they were rivals, and a new era should bring about peace, but I didn’t trust this Sorokin. No one in the Bratva business was subject to change their view so easily. Even Misha’s reasons were self-serving. Removing them as rivals meant less interference during business transactions, less men injured when they were caught up in the actions of gang rivalry. It would be safer for our men, and less threatening to our business.

On the outside, it seemed like a good idea, wrapped up tight with a pretty bow. But what was inside the wrapped box? What was Sorokinreallyplotting?

Maybe it was my mistrustful nature causing such anxiety over this, but I’d learned that trusting people made you a fool. There were few people I trusted, my list containing my mother, Gregori, Zoran, and my brothers.No one else.

That mentality had helped me survive all these years.

Besides, even if Misha and Sorokin were convinced of peace, that didn’t mean shit about the rest of their men. Not everyone would be willing to jump on board with a truce, and might see this move as weak. There could be underhand deals behind the backs of my brothers by those unwilling to compromise.

But I was new to this family, and this was ultimately Misha’s call.

Misha did most of the talking—Dimitry adding something in agreement, or pointing out an unfair trade—and after what felt like hours, but was only thirty minutes of boring discussion of terms and agreements, another guest had arrived.

The door opened, revealing a man whom Sorokin introduced as his eldest son, Soyka.

And just when things were going so smoothly, it all changed in a matter of seconds, taking the worst turn imaginable.

“Son of a bitch!” Soyka shouted, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. “That’s the son of a bitch who killed Semyon!”

Who?

“What are you talking about?” I asked in disbelief. No way was this seriously happening. “I don’t even know who that is.”

“Lies!” he shouted, his hand shaking, voice just as unsteady. “You killed my brother. It’s him, Father.”

“But I’m not even from around here. I’m from St. Petersburg!”

I wouldn’t usually reveal such information to someone, but it seemed as good a time as any to mention it.

Soyka snatched a picture from the bookshelf, shoving it to my face, pointing. “Tell me you didn’t kill him!” he spat, holding out a picture of Sorokin and what I assumed were his children—a woman and two men, one of whom was standing in front of me, pulling out a gun. The other… was a man I killed in St. Petersburg.

Fuck.

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