41. Vasiliy
We didn’t really do the whole family dinner thing in the Morozov clan.
The closest we ever got to such a ritual was the numerous times I’d mouth off in front of my uncle, who’d promptly grab me by the ear, drag me to an empty room, and toss in a stale slice of bread to serve as my meal for the night.
Since my mother never cared to be around, Uncle took over what he called the child-rearing, a funny way to refer to the constant beatings I was saddled with.
At some point, I assumed every syndicate family was raised the same way ours was.
Loyalty over love.
Strength above all.
But after spending time with the Siderov unit, it’s become clear that punishment and fear aren’t the standard here.
I slice open the bloody steak on my plate, casually listening to the chatter erupting across the long table.
Octavia sits beside me, her hair still tousled and wild from our time at the shooting range.
The recollection goes straight to my dick, an entirely inappropriate reaction to be having in front of her entire extended family.
Whatever.
As if I could stop thinking of her body for a fucking second after having free rein. I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life.
“So,” Kirill, her youngest cousin, starts, breaking off whatever he was talking about to turn his attention on Octavia.
He looks to be in his mid-twenties—none of those crunchy wrinkles that come from dealing with years of stressful decisions.
“I noticed Dmitri has been acting quite irritable since your trip to the range. I’ve seen that man take a bullet with less of a reaction. What’d you do to the poor guy, cousin?”
A fork screeches against a plate, cutting off all other conversations at the table. Octavia goes beet red beside me, flushing all the way down to her pretty…
Stop, Vasiliy. So not the right time.
“Did he try something?” Her father drops his knife to the table.
“He did not,” Octavia answers, eyes glued to the rim of her plate.
A small smile plays across my lips. What can I say? I tried to keep her quiet, but my girl loves to moan. I suppose I could’ve fucked her against something other than the door the little soldier was no doubt standing outside of, but where would be the fun in that?
Then I make a critical mistake. I raise my gaze off the plate in front of me, colliding with Kirill’s playful eyes across the table. He spits out his sip of wine, falling into an obnoxious fit of laughter.
Octavia’s quietest cousin, Maksim, smiles knowingly beside him.
“Son!”
“What is wrong with you?” Sasha says, cutting off his brother.
Octavia physically shrinks down into her chair beside me and hides her face with her glass of wine.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Uncle Sasha,” the little shit starts, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “I just realized we never made Octavia a proper hair appointment. Surely that’s the reason the back of her head is more tangled than a ball of yarn.”
“Hey!” she snaps, pride winning out over her embarrassment.
Sasha’s gaze swings back and forth between his daughter and nephew several times before the revelation rolls over him.
A loud thud shakes the sturdy table as he smacks his head against the wooden surface.
“Boys!” Octavia’s aunt, a short blonde lady who spends most of her time in the garden, chides.
Unfortunately, her stern reprimand seems to have the opposite effect as intended, because all four of her sons break down in varying degrees of laughter across the massive table, joined by their troublesome father.
Suddenly, the serrated blade of a steak knife slams into the wood beside me, landing less than an inch from my pinky finger. I don’t even bother to move my hand out of the way.
“The next person who brings up my sex life at the dinner table is getting a new piercing,” Octavia yells with an adorable glare.
Her dad’s head smacks against the table again at the whole sex-life declaration, causing his brother to laugh even harder and pat his shoulder.
“Oh, don’t be such a prude. We are a sex-positive household. From one father to another, you’ll get used to the idea of—”
“I will get used to nothing! We are a murder-positive household, and yet I’m allowing this dead motherfucker to sit at my dinner table after defiling my perfect baby girl!”
“I bet she did some of the defiling herself,” Kirill mutters down the table, taking another bite of steak.
Sasha’s chair cracks back to the floor as he rises and turns to his nephew, violence in his eyes. “What. Did. You. Say?”
“I didn’t say anything! I said I love you, Uncle Sasha!” Kirill stutters, getting up and shuffling behind his father like a scared boy.
My hand slides across Octavia’s thigh under the table, tearing her focus off the chaos. I give her leg a soft squeeze. “Dinner and a show.”
I think it’s fair to say that the Siderov Pakhan isn’t in the best mood after the sharp turn dinner took, but since we have his negotiation call with my uncle and Solokov scheduled for tonight, here I am, stuck in the office of the man who threatened to kill me numerous times in the past hour.
Octavia asked her dad to try to reason with my former employers. I don’t have the heart to tell her there’s not much to be done. Uncle won’t give me up without a fight, if only to maintain his pride, and Solokov never agrees to any deal he doesn’t directly benefit from.
Sasha Siderov’s office looks exactly how I’d expected: worn leather couches, an expensive mahogany desk coated in a shiny finish, and paper files scattered about every surface, containing information many would kill to get their hands on.
Guess a certain someone has his head buried in the analog-age sand.
The space might be construed as cozy, were it not for its psychotic owner.
The Pakhan collapses into his chair with a tired expression. He rubs his eyes for a while before leaning forward to the dial pad of his office phone.
“Is that… nail polish?” he suddenly asks, taking in my chipped nails.
I lift my hand, inspecting Octavia’s handiwork. The black is still on for the most part, but after sparring with her cousin earlier, the pink needs some touch-ups. “Jealous?”
He merely shakes his head in disbelief and continues dialing.
Honestly, the temperature during dinner was the fucking Bahamas compared to the sound of Uncle’s voice picking up the call.
“Ah,” he says. “Sasha Siderov, I presume.”
I’ve only ever heard that tone precede violence.
“Correct. I appreciate you agreeing to this call,” Sasha answers cordially. “Mikhail Solokov is on the line as well, though I hear introductions will be unnecessary.”
“Yes,” my former employer drawls. “We have quite a history of negotiating, don’t we, Morozov? Though after the last deal turned into your nephew disappearing from my ranks into thin air, I’m hesitant to continue such talks.”
“That situation is actually the reason for this call,” Sasha cuts in before my uncle can respond.
“Is that so?” Solokov asks.
“Yes. Vasiliy was with my daughter when she was targeted and taken. The two have been recovering at my compound after their bout in captivity.”
“Your daughter. Interesting,” Mikhail says. “Is she alright?”
The reaction is night and day to my uncle’s humorless laugh across the line. “Such a pathetic boy. Always the liability.”
My anger rises, but Sasha raises a silent hand and shakes his head. My frustration melts to ash in my throat. He’s right. This isn’t about me. It’s about her.
“Yes, she has managed to make a full recovery. I prevented Vasiliy from reaching out to both of you until I had gotten some answers about the event.”
“He doesn’t answer to you, he answers me!” Uncle snaps, dropping the thin leash on his temper.
“Actually,” Solokov cuts in. “He answers to me. Isn’t that the deal we made, Mr. Morozov? That generous shipment alliance of ours in exchange for the interrogator?”
I zone out in my chair as the men argue useless points.
Not one actually cares about retaining my services.
They only want the dominion that I signify, and maybe, if I’m feeling generous, the skills I can provide.
Their voices carry on as Siderov tries to negotiate for me to stay longer at his compound, Solokov berates my uncle for failing to uphold their alliance, and Uncle makes calculated threats against everyone on the call.
I stay silent.
I hate every part of this.
In all my years in this line of work, I never contested my place as a mindless bottom-man. Some men are born into leadership. I was created to follow orders. I’m the one who carries out the bloody tasks in the darkness so that Uncle’s hands can stay pristine.
But at some point in the last two months, I saw a glimpse of a different life.
One where I get to spend every day caring for my girl in quiet moments and family chaos.
Where I could take her across the world to every place I traveled to on assignment, and see each city through her fresh, bright eyes.
I saw a lifetime of silent conversations and secret jokes, and making her realize she’s worth every star in the stupid sky.
I’m a fool for considering that such a life would be available for a bastard like me.
The meeting eventually ends with a tentative agreement between the Pakhans: I’ll stay at the Siderov compound until Sasha gets his answers about our kidnapping, after which I’ll return to Mikhail Solokov’s service in New York.
My uncle’s annoyance with the verdict is deafening.
I thank Sasha, even though he’s only fighting for me for his daughter’s sake, and walk out of his office into the dark hall.
Whatever. He stood up for me, and that’s all that really matters.
When the door clicks shut against my back, a gush of air leaves my chest.
Octavia is fast asleep by the time I enter our dark room, hair splayed out on the pillow like a splash of wine.