“What about the plants in my clubs?”
“They’ve been removed. The FBI seems to have backed off us.”
I snort. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
Demyan sighs. “Can’t you just accept the fact that you won?”
“No. It was too easy.”
“Most people would celebrate, you sourpuss.”
“I saw the look in that motherfucker’s eyes,” I tell Demyan. “I know the man. He’s not going to just disappear. Especially since I have his sister.”
“Great point. Remind me, why do you still have his sister?” Demyan asks.
“Because I need to make sure he is taking me seriously.”
I’m growing impatient. I shouldn’t have to explain any of this. Especially to Demyan. He’s trying to draw something else out of me. I despise playing these games with him, but the bastard loves it.
“Is that why?” Demyan probes. “Or did it have something to do with her dimples and that sweet ass?”
I give him a warning glare. “Keep your eyes to yourself or I’ll pluck them out.”
“Hmm,” Demyan remarks. “Possessive. Interesting.”
“You’re like a fucking dog with a bone,” I snap. “Are you focusing on this to distract from your own shit?”
His face sours instantly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It was your weekend with Callie, wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Don’t think I don’t know that you’re deflecting, asshole,” he warns.
I smile. “Two can play at this game. Answer the damn question.”
“Yeah,” he says irritably. “It was my fucking weekend.”
“And?”
“Miranda’s serious about this move. We talked after I dropped Callie off.”
“You want me to talk to her?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Maybe. She has always had the hots for you. You might be more convincing than me.”
“I know; it’s the only reason she looked twice at you. Because you were sitting right next to me that day.”
“Ah, go fuck yourself, you smug bastard.” He flashes his middle finger at me.
My smile fades. “The offer is a serious one, though,” I tell him. “I’ll do what must be done.”
“I know,” he says gratefully. “But it’s not necessary. I can handle this on my own.”
Something in his tone sounds dangerous, feral. “Don’t go Bratva on her,” I advise. “Bad move.”
“Why the hell not?”
I shake my head. “Because that’s the fastest way to make her double down on this decision. She left you because you were too Bratva, Demyan. You need to prove to her that you can be more than that.”
“Blasphemous words, coming from you.”
“I’m a realist,” I say. “And I know women.”
“Apparently, not all women.” Demyan throws me a smile. I ignore it completely. But of course he pushes on. “Have you spoken to her since the big day?”
“Don’t ask me questions you already know the answers to.”
He smirks. “Well, there might have been a conjugal visit or two that I wasn’t around for.”
“I didn’t marry her for the sex.”
“That’s just a delightful bonus, huh?”
“We haven’t fucked since we got married.”
“You’re subscribing to the traditional Bratva formula, then? Sexless marriages and unhappy wives. A tale as old as time.”
“Doing it the other way didn’t work out for you, did it?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
There’s a knock on the door. I glance at the clock and sigh. As late as it is, the days are never over when you’re don.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens. Pyotr is standing there. His imposing figure takes up most of the threshold. He has a habit of lurking in doorways that I’ve spent years trying to break, to no avail.
“Come in, Pyotr,” I emphasize impatiently.
He trudges in and stops a few feet away from us with his head bowed. It’s his way of showing me respect, but I don’t need the formalities that my father insisted on. I know I have the respect of my men without all the damn melodrama.
“Sir,” he says to the floor beneath his feet, “I just thought I should let you know that the madam is on her way out.”
I frown, glancing at the Rolex on my wrist. “At this time?”
“She, um… well—”
“Spit it out, man,” Demyan growls.
“She’s dressed to kill,” Pyotr says, sounding supremely uncomfortable.
I exchange a glance with Demyan and then give Pyotr a nod. “Tell her to stop in before she leaves.”
The discomfort on his face only gets more pronounced, but he bows stiffly and backs out of the room.
The moment the door snaps shut, Demyan turns to me with curiosity. “Your mother leaving the house is newsworthy enough to report to the boss?”
“I asked Pyotr to keep tabs on her.”
Demyan raises his eyebrows. “Why in God’s name would you do that?”
“She’s been restless lately,” I explain. “And she’s been known to make poor decisions in the past. I don’t want her running amok when the FBI is still watching me.”
“You think they’ll try to get to you through her?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” I muse. “She’s the only one who moves in society outside of Bratva circles.”
“Good point.”
“You better get a move on before she shows,” I tell him. “It won’t be pretty.”
“Right,” he says, grabbing his glass and downing the last of the tequila we’ve been sipping. “Fuck, that’s strong.” He stops at the door and turns to me again. “She’s not going to be happy to know you’re spying on her.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t give a shit.”
He smirks. “Some things never change.”
A few minutes after he shuts the door, it swings open again and my mother walks in. Pyotr was right—she is dressed to the nines in a black cashmere dress wrapped tight around her body. There’s a shimmer to the fabric that gives it an extra lift and her heels are black and sequined.
She’s also wearing a lot of makeup. Too much. She looks like a woman desperate to reverse the aging process.
“Nice dress,” I comment.
She flinches slightly, sensing the subtle reprimand in my tone. “Thank you.”
“It’s maybe a little young for you, though.”
A brief flash of hurt flickers across her face before she controls it. “Is there a reason I was summoned, Aleksandr?”
“Where are you going?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Why does anyone ask a question? Because I’d like to know.”
“It’s not any of your business.”
She’s like a petulant teenager trying to assert her independence. I am aware of the ironic role reversal, but I don’t have the time to handle her with care. I’ve got shit to do and I don’t need to be worried about who my mother is fraternizing with in the meantime.