Chapter 19 Vaughn #2
Okay, but you don’t have to be in a relationship. You’re the one who told me to do what feels right, and there’s no need to label myself, so maybe take your own advice, my dude. Unless you still have some hang-ups about preferring dick to pussy?
I don’t prefer dick to pussy. I’m fine with both. And yes, I surprised myself by how easily I accept that fact. I guess I admitted that I truly loved the sexual experience, even if my brain is still fighting to fully fall into it.
The brain will always fight.
Even for someone who’s been out as bi for a while?
You came out as bi?
Not me, him.
I don’t know. What are you asking me for? I’m as new as you to this game.
Let me ask you. If he seemed to enjoy the oral, judging by how much he came down my throat, why do you think he stormed out, refusing to look at me, and then proceeded to ignore me? I mean, I’m a beginner, but I don’t think I was that bad.
Maybe he didn’t enjoy it as much as you thought. But it’s better if you ask him. That is, if you still want to talk to the prick after he dared to ghost you.
My heart falls as I read and reread Gareth’s words, specifically “Maybe he didn’t enjoy it as much as you thought.” That’s the only thing that makes sense and the possibility I’ve been thinking about since that day.
Because why else would he disappear after invading my life for so long?
Was he disappointed? The reality was worse than his fantasy, and he didn’t want to proceed?
All this time, I refused to text him, especially not first, but now, I type a few words. My finger hovers over the Send button before I hit it.
Are you done playing games?
He doesn’t read the text.
Almost as if he’s erased me from his life.
And the rage festering beneath my skin erupts, flooding to the surface, front, right, and center.
An hour later, I’m walking around the charity event. Washington DC isn’t an arbitrary location; it’s been carefully chosen to be a neutral ground for all the factions attending.
The mansion-turned-diplomatic-hall exudes elegance with a steel-lined spine. Columns of pale stone rise like sentinels beneath a ceiling dressed with painted clouds and golden trim, designed to impress the men gathered here.
Russians—mostly Russian Americans such as myself. Only a few were born in Russia and raised there like Mom, and they’re mostly from an older generation.
I trail Dad, exchanging greetings with the people he presents me to, pride flickering in his gaze.
“Meet my son.”
“Have you met my son?”
“This is my pride and joy, Vaughn.”
My mother did the same a while ago, introducing me to business associates of the Ivanovs—her side of the family.
Both she and my dad keep praising me, my intellect, my achievements, how “lucky” they are to have me, and I have to physically stop myself from loosening my tuxedo’s bow tie.
I go through the motions, acting the part, being absorbed into our surroundings in order to ignore the discomfort bubbling within.
Crystal chandeliers drip warm light onto polished floors, catching on jeweled wrists and the sharp glint of cuff links. Classical music hums in the background—Prokofiev, I believe—but no one’s really listening. The melody floats above the room like tension waiting to snap.
Guests murmur in hushed, brittle tones, and while it sounds casual, it’s not. This place is nothing short of a minefield.
Men from every Bratva faction dot the space in their tailored suits, with their practiced smiles and hawk-like eyes that flick toward the exits too often.
As I listen to Dad’s acquaintance speak, I catch the guarded expressions, the subtle glances, and how some of the older men keep a hand near their jacket, even while sipping champagne.
It looks like diplomacy but smells like smoke before a fire.
It’s not only New York versus Chicago—it’s the whole thing.
All of a sudden, the room erupts in low murmurs when Yaroslav walks in, followed by what are supposed to be leaders in his Bratva. Security isn’t allowed inside the hall, but the bald-headed men with him look like bodyguards instead of other leaders.
“Here comes the snake.” Uncle Adrian slides to Dad’s side, speaking low. “Keep an eye on him. He’s up to something.”
Dad narrows his eyes. “I know.”
“I don’t like his secret dealings with powerful families close to our territory.”
“Then we need to make our own.”
“Not possible at the moment. Those families, such as the Davenports and Callahans, only deal with insiders.”
“Yaroslav was born a nobody in the streets of Moscow and lived like a rat for most of his youth.” Dad narrows his eyes in the Chicago leader’s direction. “He only got this far by using his father-in-law’s fortune like a parasite, so he’s definitely not an insider.”
“He might not be an insider, but he has a bargaining chip that allows him an in we currently don’t have.”
That can’t be good.
Dad and Uncle Adrian fall silent, but many others are whispering about Yaroslav. He’s not truly liked by any of the other factions, but he’s respected, or probably feared, because many of the other leaders fall in line to greet him.
No one from our side steps up, though, which is understandable, considering the bad blood.
It might have started a long time ago, but it was cemented after that attack on the camp. Yaroslav thinks our side did it, and Dad thinks Chicago is the one behind it.
But I’m not sure.
I’ve often found that incident strange, and I’ve done a lot of digging over the years, but I’ve never come up with anything different from my father’s findings.
He believes Yaroslav hacked into our system and sent people to kill me, and it was only a stroke of luck that Yulian took the bullet instead.
While it does make sense from Dad’s perspective, in reality, it’s not convincing. Although there’s no love lost between father and son, Yaroslav wouldn’t put his heir in danger like that; he just wouldn’t risk it.
But again, it’s only speculation, and there’s no proof at this point.
“Morozov, Volkov.” A man with fully white hair and a strong build cuts through the small crowd surrounding us, though he doesn’t truly have to since they make room for him.
The leader of the Boston branch.
Uncle Adrian nods in acknowledgment, and my father says, “Markov.”
“What’s with the long face, gentlemen?” His words roll out in a thick Russian accent, followed by a booming laugh as he snaps his fingers at a waiter, who nearly trips rushing over. Markov plucks two flutes of champagne and hands them to my father and Uncle Adrian. “Let’s drink to new beginnings.”
Dad takes the glass but doesn’t lift it to his mouth. “Not if he’s here. I told you that.”
“Now, now.” Markov, our enthusiastic host, throws his hand around.
“Don’t hold on to old grudges. It’s not like you.
Besides, as a gesture of goodwill, Dimitriev brought his disabled child to show support for the cause.
Flew her all the way from Chicago, which is unheard of, considering how much he shelters her.
The least you can do is be a little lenient. For my sake, yes?”
“I will not compromise,” my father says with finality, but I’m not focused on him, my gaze square on Yaroslav.
My lips part when the last person I expected to see walks through the door.
Yulian.
He wasn’t on the list of guests. I know because I checked it, obsessively, hoping for what, I don’t know.
But he’s actually here.
My heart squeezes, the air in my lungs constricting, and my ears ring, completely tuning out the conversation surrounding me.
Every morsel of my attention is directed at him.
He’s in a black suit, stretched taut over muscle, no tie, the top buttons of his white shirt undone. His hair is slicked back, his expression flat—bored, almost—as he wheels a girl in a stunning pink dress in front of him.
The resemblance is uncanny, though she’s softer, blue-eyed, copper waves framing her face. She glances back at him with a smile, says something, and he laughs.
A loud thud echoes in my chest.
Fuck.
I’ve seen Yulian laugh before, but never like that, with his mismatched eyes glittering and his whole body leaning forward.
That must be Alina, his baby sister that he mentioned before.
He said she was a ballerina, so did she become disabled during these last four years or…?
He lifts his head, and my hand balls into a fist in my pocket when our eyes meet. Even though it’s across a room packed full of people, it’s almost as if we’re the only ones here.
His laughter dissipates, and something inside me shivers and dies.
What the actual fuck?
He used to always have this automatic grin whenever he saw me, but now…he’s scowling?
Yulian turns his sister around, cutting off eye contact as he wheels her to the side opposite from me.
Is the motherfucker avoiding me?
The rage festering inside me ignites, bleeding red into my vision.
Fuck this.
If Yulian believes he can come and go as he wishes, then he’s in for a rude fucking awakening.
Whatever this thing between us is will go according to my rules, and he has no say in it.