Vitaly (Las Vegas Petrov Bratva #3)

2. Vitaly

2

VITALY

A lik looks the same.

He stands at the altar in a tux that isn’t fitting for him. The Alik I knew couldn’t afford a thrift store blazer, so the man sporting a Brioni that must cost more than every dime his junkie mother left behind looks like an imposter.

But it’s his face. His empty expression. His rigid posture. He was born a peasant, but he was meant to be a killer. That’s exactly what my uncle made him.

Or maybe that was me.

I squint from the balcony as music plays and his bride walks down the aisle. The red eye—a scar I gave him—lights up at her, casting away the void. He truly does love her. I can tell in just this one look, like I’m seeing inside his soul. I wonder if it’s as obvious for everyone else or if I somehow still know Alik better than the others.

He was my best friend before everything happened. My brother.

Now? Now I don’t know what he is. Underboss to my uncle, if my intel is correct, and judging by the turnout at this wedding, I’d say it is.

Underboss of the Petrov Bratva… Alik .

My lips lift in a slight smile. I can’t believe the bastard did it, despite everything. If I’m honest, I’m shocked they didn’t kill him after the job I pushed him to take went south. I’m surprised they didn’t kill everyone involved. But then again, he and I were the only survivors, and everyone knew it was my fault. Everyone knew who made the call that got my brothers and myself tortured, my own father killed.

One bad job changed the trajectory of our lives. One poor call changed the future of the Bratva.

My smile falls at the memory, and as if he can sense it, Alik peers up at the balcony with narrowed eyes. The hood pulled over my head shields me, so it seems unlikely that he knows I’m here. If he did, he’d probably stop his own wedding to kill me. Part of me wishes he would.

But I’m not here for him or for his retribution, justified as it may be. I’ve spent the last nine years in a Russian prison I wouldn’t have chosen over death. My sins will never be washed clean, but they’re as paid for as I can ever afford. I didn’t come back for Alik, and I didn’t come back for the Bratva.

I came back for her .

My eyes scan the nave until I find who I think is my uncle in one of the front pews. It’s hard to tell, it’s been so long, and all I have is the back of his head to go on. I recognize his dark blond hair and the straight way he sits. The way he holds his head up.

I eye the woman beside him with nearly black hair cascading down her back in curls. She sits as straight as he does, close to him but not touching.

Reaching into my coat pocket, I don’t take my eyes off the woman. Not until the photo is in my hand and held in front of my face.

I peer at it, studying the dark hair on the half-naked woman kneeling at Nikita’s side. He sits—peering away from the camera—like a king in a purple, velvet chair in what I know to be my father’s old office. The woman in the photo has similar hair as the woman with him now, but it’s straightened and partially pulled back. It could be her.

I flip the photo over and read the note as I have every day since it arrived in my prison block. Only days before I was miraculously released.

Nikita Petrov has what’s yours.

That’s it. That’s all it says.

At first, I thought it was referring to my uncle holding the title of Pakhan, as if I still gave a shit about my birthright. As if I had any lingering loyalty to the Petrovs.

But then I saw the mole beneath the woman’s brown eyes.

Mila Alekseev. The girl I was supposed to marry.

I hadn’t thought about her in nine years. After I was sent away, I couldn’t have predicted she would’ve stayed, let alone that she would’ve been gifted to Nikita.

I flip the photo back over and stare at the woman, wondering how much I would care if her circumstances were slightly different. She came to the United States for a future Pakhan, and it’s what she got.

But the lingerie…

The kneeling…

She isn’t his wife. She’s his whore.

And she was the last thing my father tried to give me. The last lesson he tried to teach. He was wrong for it, and my grandfather must’ve seen—as I did at the time—that she was more fit to be a servant than a wife. My uncle must feel the same, but I will not let my father’s wishes be desecrated like this.

He chose Mila Alexseev to be a wife. The least I could give her is her freedom.

People stand as Alik and his bride are pronounced husband and wife, and they cheer as the couple walk down the aisle. I stay seated, watching carefully as the woman from the photo turns, along with my uncle.

I won’t lie, the two look like a nice pair. Her fitted, scarlet dress matches his tie and the red painting her lips. Breasts I don’t recall her having spill from the deep V cutting all the way down to her waist, but as suggestive as it is, the way she holds herself screams class. I wonder if she dyes her hair because if I remember correctly, her natural hair is more of a soft brown.

My head tilts as Nikita clutches a cane and limps a step forward toward the aisle. That’s new.

As people shuffle, I stand and glide down the stairs to beat the crowd to the door. I don’t plan to approach her yet. I’m only here to get a peek.

I slip out of the church and watch the front doors from my vehicle. To my surprise, Nikita and Mila don’t leave together.

She walks from the church alone, and after briefly running her hands up her arms, she lowers them as if afraid that to be cold is to be weak.

She climbs into the back of a black Escalade that pulls away when the driver arrives five minutes later.

I start up my new-to-me, old Jeep and follow after them, not expecting much excitement from Mila Alekseev’s life.

I remember her with her head bowed submissively, her eyes trying so hard to be brave, and I wonder…

What kind of woman did that little girl grow up to be?