Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Dimitri
Half an hour before the club opens, my father and brother sit across from me in a booth, while Uri and Mikhail occupy the seats to either side of me. There’s no mistaking the family resemblance between my brother Damien and our father—same dark hair, same sharp square jawline. Even the way they sit, leaning back with an air of quiet dominance, mirrors each other. They are the perfect models of Bratva: intimidating, intelligent, and utterly ruthless.
Mikhail isn’t blood. He’s my brother’s right hand man, and our getaway driver if needed. He doesn’t have the same air of confidence that comes naturally to my brother and father. Mikhail has to fake it, acting big and brash. He’s also annoying as fuck. I’m pretty sure the only reason he’s still around is because nobody wants to waste the ammunition it would take to get rid of him. And he is a pretty effective driver under pressure. Plus, if he’s working for us, he’s not telling our tales to others. At least, he shouldn’t be.
The hum from the heater mingles with the faint clink of bottles being shifted at the bar. The lights are dim, casting long shadows over the empty room, but I can still see Katya moving behind the counter. She’s in her usual uniform, sleeves rolled past her elbows as she stocks the shelves with a practiced efficiency. From here, I can’t tell if she managed to get all the bloodstains out of her shirt. Hopefully she didn’t spend all day doing laundry. Or maybe she has more than one black button down shirt. She is a girl, sooo that’s plausible.
It’s only the tenth time I’ve glanced her way. My restraint is remarkable. I should win a trophy for my iron will.
“Who’s going to clean up this fucking mess?” my father asks, his voice low and deliberate. He leans back, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, its ash threatening to fall.
“We’ll handle it,” I reply, keeping my tone steady.
My father arches a brow, unimpressed. “Handle it how?” He leans forward now, his elbows resting on the table. “I don’t like loose ends.”
Uri shifts beside me, cracking his knuckles. “The body’s gone. The alley’s clean. No one’s talking.”
My father snorts, sounding even more unimpressed, if that’s even possible. “That’s the minimum. I need you to send a message. You think The Deviant isn’t going to retaliate?”
“Whatever we do, it’s got to be careful. The Deviant’s wrath took out an entire crime family in Brazil,” I remind them.
Mikhail slaps my shoulder hard, his grin revealing a gold tooth. “Relax, Dimitri. You're so serious. We’ll handle The Deviant.”
I don’t respond immediately, my eyes drifting again toward the bar. Katya moves with purpose, her ponytail swaying as she bends to grab something from the lower shelf. She pauses mid-motion, her head tilting slightly as if she senses someone watching her.
“You thirsty, man?” Mikhail says, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
God, yes.
“Waitress! Bring us drinks,” Mikhail shouts, his booming voice echoing in the empty club.
Katya straightens, her hands freezing on the bottles she’s rearranging. She glances around the room, her head turning from side to side, as if searching for anyone else who might fulfill the order. The space is empty except for us. She knows that. But still, she hesitates.
“She’s not a waitress,” I warn, my voice tight. Katya doesn’t take well to being ordered around, especially when it falls outside her job description.
“This,” Mikhail sneers at me, his lip curling in disdain. “This is why your woman fucks other men. You’re too weak.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t respond. I’ve heard the “you’re too weak” line more times than I can count. It lost its sting long ago. Besides, Svetlana’s indiscretions have nothing to do with how I treat Katya.
Before I can say anything, Uri steps in, his voice calm but firm. “He’s not weak. He’s smart. Smarter than you, Mikhail.”
Mikhail waves him off dismissively. “Smart? A real man doesn’t need to be smart. A real man takes what he wants.” He turns toward Katya, his tone turning dangerous. “Bitch! Get your ass over here with our drinks!”
Heat rises along my neck, spreading across my shoulders. My back stiffens, my fingers itching to curl into fists. Mikhail is half-deaf in his right ear. It wouldn’t take much—just a well-placed punch to his temple to leave him completely deaf.
“Watch your tone,” I growl, my voice low and menacing.
Mikhail smirks, clearly unfazed. “Or what?”
I glance at Uri, whose hand has subtly shifted toward his jacket—always ready, always watching. My brother says nothing, his expression unreadable, but my father’s sharp gaze cuts across the table like a blade.
“Enough.” My father’s voice carries the weight of command, silencing the room. He flicks the ash from his cigarette and leans back, studying Mikhail with cold disapproval. “Orders have consequences, and you might not like what they are.”
“And my order was a fucking drink!” Mikhail yells across the space.
My father doesn’t like to be disregarded. The tension in the room settles, but it lingers in the air we breathe. Katya hears the exchange, lowers her head, and returns to work. She either appreciated what my father said, or is planning to burn the whole bar down for real this time.
Once she finishes the task she was focused on, she throws a towel over her shoulder and gathers glasses to bring over to us. My father and brother are deep in conversation, discussing shipments scheduled to arrive tomorrow night, engrossed with the profit margins. Neither of them seems aware of the war about to be unleashed.
“Katya?” Uri’s voice breaks through, adopting a sweet, sing-song tone. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could you please bring me a bag of popcorn, too? Thank you.”
“What are you doing?” I hiss, leaning closer to him.
Uri grins, tilting his head toward the bar where Katya is busy fixing our drinks. “I grew up with women like her. I’m enjoying the show.”
Mikhail huffs, crossing his thick arms over his chest. “Another weakling.”
My brother snaps out of his conversation, glancing at Mikhail with a smirk. “Weak? His body count is double yours. He cleans his messes, and since he joined us, our business has tripled.”
The facts hang in the air, undeniable. Mikhail’s sneer deepens, while Uri leans back, his grin widening—poor guy is desperate for any sort of praise.
“We take what we want,” Mikhail says, his tone laced with disdain.
But my father interjects, his voice calm and commanding. “Only if it’s cost-efficient. Not all desires are worth the trouble.”
The faint clink of glasses signals Katya’s approach. She moves gracefully, a tray carrying our drinks and Uri’s requested bag of popcorn balanced on one hand. Her expression is neutral, but her sharp eyes flick between us, taking in the tension.
Uri stands as she reaches the table, practically bouncing with excitement as he grabs the popcorn. “Thank you so much,” he says, tearing into the bag as he settles back into his seat, wide-eyed, clearly ready to enjoy the chaos.
Katya leans across the table to hand my father his drink. The faint scent of lavender soap—or maybe shampoo—drifts in her wake, subtle but distracting.
“Dimitri said last night was interesting,” my father says, his tone probing.
“Yes, sir,” Katya replies, her voice polite but clipped. Her eyes narrow and her jaw locks, failing to hide her annoyance.
“I trust the rest of your evening was uneventful,” my father continues as she places a crystal glass in front of my brother.
This time, Katya flashes him a smile, her expression softening just slightly. I know her tells, she can’t lie to me. “Just an evening doing a deep dive into Amanda Chase’s new album,” she says casually.
“What, no man to fuck you at home?” Mikhail’s crude laughter makes the rest of the table uncomfortable. Like when my father farts and the rest of us pretend it didn’t happen.
Uri inhales sharply, so excited he’s vibrating in his seat, as Katya places a drink in front of me without looking at Mikhail, her movements precise.
“You don’t need to answer him,” I say quietly, my tone firm.
“It was never my intention,” she replies, flashing me an icy smile before turning her attention back to her task.
Mikhail’s hand slithers to her hip like the snake he is, his fingers curling possessively. Katya says nothing, her composure unshaken as she hands Uri his drink. Fuck. I’m going to end up killing Mikhail with my bare hands and Katya will have to burn the bar to hide the evidence. Uri’s grin widens as though he’s watching the first act of a play.
“We take what we want,” Mikhail says, his hand sliding lower, boldly gripping her ass. “We are the Bratva. Our power means we take whatever—and whoever—we want.”
I feel the heat rise in my chest, my hand instinctively moving toward my gun. Mikhail’s power won’t protect him from the shot I’m ready to take.
“Ooooh,” Uri whispers, biting into his popcorn, eyes alight with anticipation.
Katya turns her attention to Mikhail, her voice calm, her words deliberate. “And because you’re so powerful, you’re entitled to everything you see?”
Mikhail’s voice drops to a silky, predatory tone. “Yes.”
What happens next is too fast to process in real time.
Katya slams Mikhail’s drink on the table, shattering the glass into jagged shards. Before he can react, she grabs the hand still gripping her and presses it hard against the broken rim. Blood wells immediately as the glass cuts into his skin.
“Men who believe they are entitled to things do not treat those possessions with the same respect as those they’ve had to work for,” she hisses, her voice cold and sharp as ice daggers.
Mikhail howls in pain, jerking forward to retaliate. But Katya is faster. In one fluid motion, she twists the embedded glass, yanking it free from his bleeding hand, and presses the jagged edge to his throat.
“Do you know what happens to men who take without earning?” she whispers.
Mikhail freezes, his breath caught in his throat, blood trickling down his hand to pool on the table.
Uri lets out a low whistle, still crunching on his popcorn. “Damn. Best show in town.”
The whole table freezes, except for the blood dripping steadily off Mikhail's hand. Katya stands over him, tilting her head like she’s studying a painting. “What did you learn?”
“That you’re a fucking crazy bitch?” he snaps, his voice sharp with pain.
She clicks her tongue, the sound crisp and condescending. “Nope,” she says lightly. Her grip tightens on his wrist, and with a sudden thrust, she slams his hand hard onto the jagged glass shards still on the table.
Uri wriggles in his seat, shimmying and shaking with glee between bites of popcorn. My father and brother remain unphased, their expressions unreadable.
Mikhail screams again as she lifts his hand. Blood drips freely, and several shards of glass remain embedded in his raw, mangled palm.
My gut twists. He may be an entitled asshole, but he’s also our driver. He needs his hands to do his job.
Damien furrows his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you do that to Viktor last night?”
“Viktor might’ve tried to kill me, but at least he didn’t grab my ass.” Katya’s tone cuts through the tension. “I’m waiting.”
Mikhail exhales sharply, his breaths ragged. “Don’t touch you,” he mutters through gritted teeth.
She pauses, her lips quirking upward as her eyes drift toward the ceiling. “I guess that’s good enough for now.” Her eyes flick to his hand, and her expression hardens. “But look at this mess,” she says, motioning to the blood pooling on the table, mingling with the crystal shards scattered across it. “I should help you clean up.” She steps aside, gesturing toward the exit with a lazy wave. “Let’s go,” she commands, snapping her fingers.
Mikhail growls under his breath. “I’m not going anywhere with you, bitch.”
Katya lifts her brow, her voice dripping with mock disappointment. “Well, now someone’s not getting ice cream.”
For a moment, Mikhail appears like he might argue further, but he huffs, scoots out of the booth, and trudges toward the back with her.
“I’ll be back to clean up.” she tosses a cloth over her shoulder, motioning to the table.
Uri, still grinning like a kid at a circus, throws a piece of popcorn and catches it in his mouth. Between bites, he grins. “I knew this was going to be a good show.” He slides out of the booth with exaggerated nonchalance and starts picking up shards of glass. The rest of us follow suit, each taking a task. I grab a rag to wipe the blood while my brother heads for the mop.
“You need to control your men better,” my father mutters, his voice pointed as he addresses my brother.
“We’ve got bigger problems than Mikhail’s ego,” I reply, glancing toward the bar where Katya had been before all this. “If we’re dealing with another shipment tomorrow, we need to secure the routes—no interruptions this time.”
My brother nods in agreement. It’s nice when we’re on the same page. “We’ll double the guards, especially near the docks.”
The conversation turns to logistics—delivery times, manpower, bribes to local officials—and I let it wash over me, my focus split between the task at hand and the image of Katya’s unflinching face as she handled Mikhail. My brother’s question comes back to mind. Why didn’t she defend herself better against Viktor?
Ten minutes later, Mikhail returns, one hand heavily bandaged, his other clutching a bowl of ice cream, expression that of a sullen child. Katya follows behind him, her expression calm but sharp as her eyes scan the now-clean table.
“Thank you so much. I would’ve done it,” she says, her tone polite but firm.
“We know,” I tell her simply, earning a quick glance of acknowledgement before she moves on.
My father speaks up, his voice carrying a note of authority. “Katya, I’m hosting an event at my home for my birthday. Friends, family, something small and intimate. Would you mind tending the bar for the evening? Please. I’ll make sure Dimitri pays you for your time.”
“I would love to, sir,” she replies smoothly, nodding.
Uri claps Mikhail on the back, his laughter loud and mocking. “See? That’s how it’s done,” he says, still chuckling as Mikhail glares at him over his ice cream.
Damien frowns. “Maybe we should get another sign made about not touching the bartender.”