Chapter 53 Petyr
PETYR
The call comes through while I’m in the car. “Shipment’s been found,” Mikhael reports. “Delivered to the Italians just now. All tied up in a bow.”
The knot in my chest loosens. “About damn time. Where the hell was it?”
“Some warehouse near the docks. Idiots guarding it thought no one would notice.” His tone is lighter than I expect. Almost like we’re cousins again, not rivals circling each other with knives. “I handled it.”
I let out a grunt, unsure whether to laugh or growl. “You handled it?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m capable of things that don’t involve scheming behind your back.” There’s a wry edge, but not sharp enough to cut. He’s baiting me, but in a familiar way, not the venomous tone he’s had lately.
It’s strange, this sudden return to normal. Part of me wonders if the attempt on our lives shook him awake. Reminded him how fragile our bloodline is.
Or maybe he’s the mole and this is all theater. I hate how the thought even crosses my mind, but paranoia is the air I breathe now. Too much Gubarev blood has been spilled already.
“I’ll give you this,” I say slowly. “You don’t sound like a cutthroat chasing my chair today.”
“Maybe I’m tired of chasing,” he answers, voice quieter. “Maybe I’m tired of watching cousins die.”
For a moment, I allow myself to believe him.
“I’ll see you later,” I mutter and hang up.
The gray city slides past the window. For the first time in weeks, something almost like hope stirs in my chest.
But the hope is fragile, and I know better than to let it carry me too far.
Mikhael might sound like family again, but I can’t ignore the possibility that he’s only playing at loyalty while feeding scraps of information to Anatoli.
If someone set us up at that restaurant, it had to be someone close. Someone with access.
I rub my temple. There’s a small scar there, just along the hairline. Whenever I feel like this, I touch it to remind myself of who I am. Who I was raised to be.
I didn’t get it in a particularly badass way. When I was younger, I stood too quickly at the gym and banged my head on a piece of equipment I hadn’t seen. Got a nasty cut out of it. I wasn’t used to pain yet, and it felt fucking blinding.
But my father made me keep working through the pain. Told me trust was earned in blood, and that blood never stopped being tested. To this day, I still remember how bad it hurt to keep doing reps with blood in my eyes.
At least the shipment is handled. That buys me some breathing room with the Italians, and I’ll take it.
But one victory doesn’t erase the war looming overhead. Anatoli’s bold enough to have men inside Boris’s own walls, bold enough to take shots at me and mine in broad daylight. That kind of confidence doesn’t fade with one dead gunman. If anything, he’ll push harder.
And when he does, I’ll have to push back twice as hard.
For Sima’s sake, too.
Sima. She’s in class now, according to Luka’s hourly updates. I left early this morning—didn’t want to wake her. Didn’t want to break the spell hovering over us since last night.
She said she doesn’t want to run anymore. That she wants me. Wants to stay with me, be a family for real.
It’s an odd feeling. Before, I never pictured myself as a family man. Wives and children are a distraction at best, a walking weak spot at worst. Not the kind of thing a pakhan can afford to care about.
But now I care. It happened on its own, without my permission. A first in my life since I inherited the throne.
And yet, I don’t want it to go back to the way it was. I don’t want deals or contracts.
I want her.
And I’ll do my damnedest to protect her. Come what fucking may.
With those thoughts crowding my brain, I park my car in front of the hospital and stride in.
Time to tell my brother he’s going to be an uncle.