Chapter 7
PAVEL
" Y our turn, Durak," Gregor taunted, slapping down an ace on the table. "Defend that, if you can."
I exhaled a stream of smoke and assessed my hand.
Six cards left against Gregor's three. Not promising.
"Fuck you," I muttered, tossing down my only defense—the ace of spades.
Cheers and jeers erupted around the oak table where my brothers and cousins had gathered in the basement of Gregor's house. Leather armchairs, hunting trophies, and vintage vodka advertisements adorned the wood-paneled walls of what his wife Samara insisted on calling his man cave.
Glasses clinked as Damien poured another round of the cheap American vodka they'd selected as part of my punishment.
The liquid burned twice—first my throat, then my pride.
"Perhaps our little brother should request lessons from his runaway girl," Kostya suggested, deftly rearranging his cards. "She clearly outplayed him tonight."
I gripped my glass tighter, jaw clenched as I absorbed the barbs.
This was tradition—when someone fucked up badly enough, we gathered for Durak.
The card game's name translated to "fool," and tonight, I wore that crown.
"Place your bets for the next round," Gregor announced, gathering the cards to shuffle again. "And while we're at it, who thinks Pavel will track down his runaway before she empties his gun into his thick skull?"
Damien snorted, raising his shot glass of vodka. "I hope she pistol-whips him. Would be a better love story than whatever the fuck this is turning into."
"I'll track her down," I countered, "and unlike some men, it won't take me three years to find her. We all know the only reason you two found Samara and Yelena was sheer dumb luck."
I turned to Damien, enjoying the flicker of rage in his eyes. "Didn't Yelena try to shoot you before you forced her to marry you? At this point, I'm still very much ahead."
"Strictly speaking," Damien corrected, raising a finger, "she never actually shot me."
"Only because you removed the bullets," Artem interjected with a rare smile.
"Still counts," Damien insisted.
"She pulled the trigger," Kostya pressed with a grin.
Damien smirked, pulling on his shirt cuffs. "It was foreplay. You wouldn't understand."
Gregor leaned forward and placed his hand on Kostya’s shoulder. “Says the man whose girl knocked him out while his shriveled cock was still in his hand.”
Mikhail pounded the table with his fist as he laughed. “What did she use again?”
“A lamp,” offered Gregor with a smirk.
"Fuck you both,” Kostya countered with a laugh. “And strictly speaking she hit me before I could get my dick out.”
Gregor tossed his head back with a bark of laughter. “Somehow that’s even worse.”
Meanwhile, Damien raised his glass in mock salute. “To the fallen!”
After we all drank, I folded my forearms on the table and turned to Damien. “In fact, if we're keeping score, didn’t Yelena hit you with a fucking brick? Alina stole from me. She didn't try to kill me."
Mikhail reached for the vodka bottle. “Your gun.”
My brow furrowed. “What?”
“Alina stole your gun from you…not exactly an insignificant detail.”
I gave him the middle finger even as I pushed my shot glass toward him to fill.
Kostya gave me a wink. “Give my little brother a break. He wasn’t thinking with the right head at the time.”
The whole table erupted into laughter.
"You all realize I can kill you, right?" I asked mildly, arranging my deliberately poor hand.
Another aspect of being the Durak—playing at a disadvantage.
"Yeah, yeah." Gregor waved dismissively. "But not before you prove you're not the biggest idiot at this table. "
"I'm not the one mistaking a blow job for lifelong commitment, so maybe that point has already been proven. Just because you fell for your bride after she made you come doesn't mean I have the same affliction."
Damien’s chair scraped back as he pulled a knife from his boot.
Artem seized his wrist, forcing him back into his seat while fixing me with a warning glare.
Wives were off-limits.
I knew it, but being the Durak made me reckless. I lifted my chin in Damien’s direction. “ Izvini .”
He nodded his acceptance of my apology.
Gregor, ever the strategist, opened with a seven of hearts. A deceptively weak start.
Kostya countered effortlessly, dropping a nine of spades on top.
As always, my brother's defense was impenetrable.
Artem leaned back, calculating his move. "You know, Pavel, it was an interesting choice to leave your gun behind for her to steal.”
Damien nodded, dropping his card without looking.?“Yeah. Nothing screams ‘alpha male’ like getting robbed mid-blow job.”
I?exhaled sharply, rubbing my temples. “You would know, asshole. At least I didn’t tie her up just so she could slip the knots again and again. At least Alina didn’t jump out of a window to get away from me.”
“Yelena didn’t jump out of a window,” he scoffed, then paused. “She just made me think she did.”
“Right…but we all know she would’ve if she’d had to. Bu t getting by you was just too fucking easy.” Teasing Damien about Yelena’s skill was acceptable.
I was taking the piss out of him, not insulting his wife.
Well, maybe questioning her choice of spouse, but that was fair game.
“At least I didn’t hand Yelena my gun,” he countered with a raised eyebrow.
“I didn’t give my gun to her,” I insisted, eyeing my useless cards. “I left her alone for less than a minute. She was supposed to stay put.”
“I guess you’re not as scary as you think if she thought it would be acceptable to disobey you,” Gregor countered, tapping the table with blunt fingers.
I had nothing to counter with. Taking the penalty cards, I muttered, "You want me to shoot you, Gregor?"
"You don't have a gun," Damien wheezed, slapping his knee as the table dissolved into uproarious laughter.
"She took one of my guns, not all of them," I muttered, but my defense fell on deaf ears.
"You know what the real problem is?" Gregor mused, slapping down an ace.? "You're growing soft."
Artem pointed his card at me accusingly. "You let her escape…with your gun. If this were a movie, you'd be the dumb American love interest waiting for his balls to drop."
I wanted to point out this all happened after she'd drained said balls dry, but that would only launch a barrage of jokes. I wasn't making it that easy for them.
"The question is," Damien interjected, "did she at least deserve the gun? Was the BJ good enough to warrant a parting gift? "
I flicked my burning cigarette directly at his smug face.
The bastard dodged, laughing as ash scattered across the table.
Worth it.
My mind drifted to her mouth on me, those eyes staring upward, the blend of hatred and reluctant desire.
The way she yielded without breaking.
Her inherent submission fascinated me—how she followed instructions while maintaining that defiant spark.
Stretching those pink lips around me, her entire body trembling.
I craved more, wanted to discover every expression her face could form: anguish, ecstasy, and that exquisite threshold where they merged.
Her pleas still resonated in my memory.
I needed her addiction to match my own growing obsession.
I was giving her the remainder of the night.
Not by choice.
If it had been entirely up to me, I’d be between her thighs, sinking my cock deep inside her tight pussy as she struggled against the binds I’d use to tie her to her own bed.
Unfortunately, running defense against Gregor and Artem’s fury when they found out the real reason I was at the offices a couple of hours ago was more important…but only barely.
The men surrounding me assumed I was awaiting information on her whereabouts, but I already knew her true address—not the fake one she'd given management.
I’d already sent two of my men to watch the place .
Unlike Yelena or Samara, Alina lacked resources to run far. She didn't possess Viktoria's determination or Marina's understanding of our reach.
Let her cling to a false sense of security for what remained of the night.
I'd let her have that momentary comfort.
It would make reclaiming her infinitely sweeter.
My brothers and cousins hunted their women for ownership or control.
That wasn't my motivation, though I fully intended to enjoy my prize.
For me, the pursuit itself was what held the appeal.
The challenge.
The game.
I craved finding her, chasing her, capturing her.
The others wouldn't comprehend.
I'd deliberately let her escape.
Where was the satisfaction if she simply surrendered?
By the time I'd won the next round, forcing Gregor to choke down an entire shot of bargain-shelf vodka as punishment, the atmosphere had shifted.
Artem tapped his fingers against his cards, dark eyes narrowing. "Enough bullshit. What happened before the girl swallowed your common sense along with your cock? Why were you at the building tonight, and why was the place emptied?"
I braced myself.
Here we go …
"Solovyov is handled," I replied in a deceptively casual tone.
The room fell silent .
Until Gregor and Artem simultaneously slammed their fists on the table, competing for dominance even in their anger.
"What do you mean 'Solovyov is handled'? We told you to wait. It wasn't safe to—" Artem began, his voice dangerously quiet.
"It's safe now," I interrupted, leaning back. "He's dead. Everyone knows he was targeting us, and now he isn't."
"How?" Gregor demanded, cards forgotten.
"I tracked the last of his men, brought him in."
"Again," Kostya pressed. "How?"
“The man I killed tonight was a cousin of Solovyov. He thought he didn’t know anything, which turned out to be true. Fortunately the dumbass had Solovyov’s current burner number saved in his phone, so we traced the location.”
"And how do you know his information was reliable?" Gregor's eyes narrowed to slits.
"I called Roman. Had him handle it cleanly. That's what pulled me from Alina in the first place."
Artem stood and paced a few steps away from the table, then returned, leaning forward on rigid arms and pressing his knuckles onto its surface. “You what? We do not call Roman unless there is absolutely no other alternative."
"There wasn't one." I shrugged, though unease began to creep up my spine. "It needed to be done fast and done right. He sent confirmation."
I pulled out my phone, forwarding the message to their burner devices.
The image showed Solovyov appearing almost peaceful in his bed—if not for the crimson gash across his throat and the blood-soaked sheets.
Beside him lay a young blonde still asleep, unaware of the horror awaiting her waking moments.
"Fuck," Gregor muttered, tossing his phone onto the table.
Artem set his down with deliberate control, inhaling deeply through his nose.
I recognized that expression. The “I'm restraining myself from strangling my brother” look I'd seen countless times.
"Do you understand why we didn't call Roman?" he asked, voice deceptively calm.
"Because his poor excuse for a human being and more than slightly bigoted grandmother believes he's Satan incarnate and not truly an Ivanov since he's only half-Russian?" Damien suggested, attempting to defuse the tension with sarcastic levity.
"No," Artem replied, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Because once he's involved, there's no controlling the situation?" I ventured. "But the job's complete, so?—"
"No," Gregor interrupted, gripping his glass with white knuckles.
"Because Solovyov wasn't intelligent enough to orchestrate this campaign against us himself.
He lacked the resources to withstand our pressure for this long from that distance.
Someone else pulled his strings, and now that trail has gone cold. "
My stomach twisted as realization dawned.
"We'll discuss this later," Artem declared, his tone indicating the conversation was far from over. "For now, what's your plan regarding the girl? She’s a loose end. ”
I rolled my shoulders, irritation transforming into darker intent. “I’m not going to fucking kill her if that is what you’re asking.”
Damien leaned back in his chair. “Christ, Pavel. We don’t kill women. You should know that.”
I did, but there were exceptions to every rule.
Like when a woman who wasn’t part of our mafia family witnessed a murder and then ran off into the night…with the fucking murder weapon.
I reached for the vodka bottle. It was a small blessing that they didn’t know the gun she took was that particular gun. Or none of them would be sitting around this table playing cards and joking over shots.
This was my mess. I would clean it up.
I'd made a critical error because, yet again, Artem and Gregor had withheld crucial information.
Now we faced an unknown enemy, and I had a witness on the loose.
"I'm going to find her," I stated simply.
"And when you do?" Kostya pressed.
A slow smile spread across my face as I collected my cards. "I'll teach her the true cost of stealing from an Ivanov."