Chapter 2

If there was anything Vadim Boykov loved more than money, and pliable, compliant men in the business of the Bratva, it was his theatrics. Sometimes, those theatrics came in the forms of lessons he liked to teach his men, and other times, they manifested in nothing more than Vadim showing off in a variety of ways.

Kolya never really understood his father’s need for those sorts of things, and he rarely found himself surprised by them anymore.

Walking into the Four Seasons hotel room to see two young ladies—likely a couple of years younger than him—dressed in what looked to be only short, white silk robes was nothing uncommon for Vadim. Both young women were draped over the four-poster bed, rolled onto their stomachs with their legs high in the air to give just a peek of their backsides beneath the robes, and overlooking magazines or some other nonsense.

The sheer curtains on the four-poster bed had been pulled as if to shield the girls from the view of the men, but that was only for show, too. Vadim meant for the girls to be seen, in the same way he demanded that his men didn’t look at them for longer than it took to notice they were actually there.

The women didn’t pay the entering men any mind.

Too busy pleasing his father with their games, likely. Pretty, young women were a favorite of Vadim’s, and he preferred to keep one or two on call for whatever his fancy was on any given day. Back when Kolya was a teenager, seeing this sort of thing had affected him much differently than it did now.

Back then, his mother had still been alive. Cervical cancer was the worst kind of monster because it took without care or concern, caused terrible suffering that couldn’t be appeased, and stayed hidden until it was already too late.

God rest my mama’s soul.

How someone as wonderful, sweet, and adoring as his mother had fallen for a man like Vadim Boykov was a mystery. Ana couldn’t have not known Vadim was a philanderer with a half of a dozen paid mistresses on call—serial, really. Like it was a disease the man couldn’t keep contained. And yet, Ana had never said a thing, nor spoken out against her husband to her three children. Kolya only remembered his mother loving Vadim and keeping his house like a queen should.

Now, though, Kolya barely felt anything at all when he walked in on one of these scenes. He saw them for what they were—another way for his father to show off and extend his power by way of controlling his men in an unusual way.

Look too long at the girls, and a man might lose an eye.

Touch one, and well, maybe you didn’t need that hand after all.

Konstantin, on the other hand, was still young enough—or maybe he just hadn’t gotten desensitized yet to all of this—that these shows were not as easy for him to swallow like they were for Kolya. Under his breath, in Russian, he said to Kolya, “If this isn’t some kind of shit. He’s got other rooms in here. They could be elsewhere.”

They could.

Vadim wouldn’t let them, though.

Kolya’s lips twitched with a grin that came out more like a sneer. Probably the closest thing to a smile that he could manage, honestly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely smiled because something had truly amused him or made him happy.

Unless he was beating the hell out of someone.

Or killing them.

That usually made Kolya happy.

“Relax,” Kolya returned to Konstantin at the same quiet level. “Stop letting it piss you off when you know that’s something he can—”

“Do you have something to share with the rest of the class, Kolya?”

Kolya’s gaze drifted lazily to the man across the room. A good twenty feet from where the women were still pretending like the sheer curtains were doing anything to hide the fact they were still resting on that goddamn bed. Vadim stood next to the windows, haloed in the ray of color the inverted ceiling lights provided over the heavy, dark drapes.

As usual, Vadim kept hold of a glass of vodka that might as well have been his third hand. A man could almost guess by the way Vadim was holding the glass if things would end well for him in a meeting with the man.

Tonight, Vadim kept a light grip on the glass, which meant two things. One, he was pissed, and two, the glass could fly into any man’s face, should he be brave enough to challenge the man—even without meaning to.

Perfect.

It was only when Vadim kept a tight hold on his glass of vodka that a person should feel safe. It was for only that reason that Kolya decided to tread carefully with his father right then.

He still had a phantom burn in his left eyebrow from the last glass that shattered in his face. It’d taken ten stitches from one of their paid doctors to keep it closed, made more difficult by the fact that Kolya’s face was constantly set into some kind of variation of a scowl or frown. It was never relaxed enough not to strain or pull on the stitches.

“Well?” Vadim demanded. “I know you can speak, yes? I taught you how.”

Actually, his mother probably had.

Kolya didn’t correct him.

“I was telling Konstantin that the rug could use a clean.”

Vadim’s gaze drifted to Konstantin who only shrugged as if to neither confirm, nor deny, and then back to Kolya just as fast. “Hmm.”

Once his father’s gaze was off him again, Kolya relaxed slightly. Not a whole lot, though. Just being within a visual distance of his father kept him teetering on a very dangerous edge. That’s what Vadim wanted—that’s what he liked.

Kolya was not an exception to the rule, but rather, an example of it.

Vadim muttered something low to the man in the corner of the room who was using the wall as a leaning post—the only other man besides Kolya, Konstantin, and his father’s Sovietnik, Grisha. Anatoly, the bull who had come to drag Kolya out of bed this meeting, was busy glancing at something on his phone, but still seemed to hear whatever it was Vadim said to him.

“Nyet, not yet, boss,” Anatoly said.

Vadim scowled. “Blyad. The suka seems determined to test my very gracious patience, no?”

Anatoly only shrugged in response.

Kolya was struck with a heavy jolt of irritation in that moment. He had taken two things from his father, though he hated when people had the audacity and nerve to point them out. One was his father’s disposition—reverently distasteful, constantly surly, and almost never pleasant—and the other was his features.

From the dark, short-cropped hair to the sharp line of his jaw, the square-cut chin, and ice-blue eyes. Even the shape of their straight, thick brows—giving them both the gift of a persistently dismissive or disinterested expression—was the same. Even their large, muscular builds were similar, although Kolya had a good inch or two of height on his father now. Right down to the prominent cheekbones, and cleft in his chin, it was all the goddamn same.

Sometimes, he wished it wasn’t.

“Not sure gracious is the right word to use, yeah,” Konstantin muttered low.

Jesus Christ.

The little shit was doing his very best to test Kolya for all he was worth tonight in their father’s presence. It took all Kolya’s control and effort not to smirk at that statement. He sobered quickly enough when Vadim’s sharp eyes turned on them again.

And just like that, the pounding headache from his drunken episode earlier was back, at the idea he was going to have to put on his give-a-fuck suit for his father and act like he gave a shit why he had even been called there in the first place.

“I have a job for the two of you,” Vadim started.

One that couldn’t wait until a decent time?

Kolya’s thoughts were testing his control, too, it seemed.

Konstantin passed Kolya a look, and then went back to his father. “Why are we taking the job?”

Wrong question.

“I give jobs to you,” Vadim stated, the cold gleam coming into his eye as he spoke, “but you do not get to ask me to justify or explain why I’ve given you them. Understood?”

“Yeah,” Konstantin said, stiffening a bit beside his brother.

“What job?” Kolya asked.

It worked to get his father’s attention away from Konstantin for the moment. Soon, the man would be able to go back to petting whichever pussy he preferred on the bed, and maybe he’d be in a better mood tomorrow when they had to meet up again.

But who knew?

“A brigadier has gotten out of hand—owes debts to someone after he’d already been warned on that end. Not only do I need you to collect something worthy of satisfying the trouble he’s caused … again,” Vadim added with a growl, “It would be helpful if you could make his lesson permanent. I’m sure they’ll be others around. Nature of his business. It’ll be a good reminder for them, too.”

Dirty work.

Kolya wasn’t even surprised.

“I can’t handle the issue personally, since I have the Markovic Bratva arriving this morning, and will need to deal with Vasily.”

Kolya could hear the disgust in his father’s tone. Vadim made a decent effort to play nice with other organizations when the need arose, but that was about as far as it went. He didn’t make any effort to pretend to like them, though.

“But back to the brigadier issue, as I will handle the Markovics.” Vadim passed him another dismissive glance, adding, “Because you’re a captain, he won’t think much of you going into his business. I would like it to be done with little fanfare on his end. He isn’t aware that I know of his misdeeds and have been keeping track of them for a while, so he won’t be expecting this move on my part. Nor will he be suspicious of you, yes?”

His father smiled.

It wasn’t at all friendly.

“Strip him of his stars while you’re at it,” Vadim added. “Really drive the point home for me.”

The upturned spider tattooed on Kolya’s right hand itched a bit, much like the stars on his chest stung at those words. To strip a man of his tattoos—before his death, no less—was akin to pissing on his grave while his grieving family looked on. And only another vor could do the job when the boss gave an order like that.

“Great,” Kolya said.

“Excuse me?”

Kolya checked the attitude that he hadn’t meant to let slip out. “It’ll be done.”

“Who’s the mark?” Konstantin asked.

“Ivan Kozlov.” Vadim nodded. “Now, get the fuck out of my sight.”