14. Ruslan
14
RUSLAN
I stand in the entryway of the mansion, shaking hands with men who'd slit my throat if the situation called for it, and accepting condolences from women who'll gossip about the strength of my handshake the moment they're in their cars.
"Thank you for coming," I say to Dmitri Balakirev, the chief banker of the Zapadniye Vori , my voice steadier than it has any right to be.
Grief sits in my chest like concrete, hardening with every breath.
But I can't let them see. A Dragunov doesn't break. Not in public. Not when the vultures are circling.
I turn to my mother Liliya, still seated in her chair near the black and white portraits of Lev and Mikhail. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry now. She's been weeping silently throughout the service, the way a bratva matriarch should. Dignified even in her sorrow.
Her gold-flecked eyes—so like mine—fix on the massive arrangement of white lilies, and she finally lets out a small choking sob.
The only expression of the grief ripping her apart from the insides.
"You did well with the arrangements, Lanchik," she says, her voice hollow.
My throat tightens. I've been holding everything together with sheer force of will since I got the call about Lev. Since I found out about Mikhail. Since I realized that I'm truly alone now.
I reach toward her, placing my hand on her shoulder. " Mamechka ?—"
"No, Ruslan Vitalyevich." She bats my hand away with surprising force. "Not until the doors are locked and the curtains drawn."
I withdraw my hand, feeling like a scolded child. The urge to weep for my brother and nephew burns behind my eyes, but I blink it back.
Turning away from my mother, I scan the emptying room until I find my nieces.
And my heart cracks at the sight of them.
Mikayla stands with her back straight, a fifteen-year-old girl forced into adulthood overnight. She keeps dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, trying not to cry in public the way a proper bratva princess ought to. But behind her composure, I see the lost little girl who just wants her father and brother back.
Sofia and Stella cling to each other, their faces streaked with tears even if they don't realize the gravity or permanence of what has happened.
I cross the room and kneel to their level. " Devushki ."
They rush into my arms, and for a moment, I let myself hold them tight. They're all that I have left of Lev.
"Uncle Ruslan," Sofia whimpers against my shoulder, "when is Papa coming back?"
My throat closes up. I stroke her hair instead of answering.
Tamara swoops in, elegant in her grief and designer black dress. "Girls, go to Babushka. I need to speak with your uncle."
As they reluctantly pull away, Tamara wraps her arms around my neck, pressing her body flush against mine. Her lips brush my ear as she whispers, "We need each other now more than ever, Lanchik."
"Your husband and son aren't even in the ground yet." My voice comes out as a growl. "Show some respect."
"Lev was never supposed to be my husband." She steps closer, her mint and basil perfume choking me. "It was always supposed to be you."
I grab her wrist, squeezing until she winces. "Take your hands off me."
"Why?" Her lips curve into a predatory smile. "We both know this is what you want. What you truly want."
"The only thing I want right now is for you to stop disrespecting my brother's memory."
"Lev is dead. Gone." She presses against me, her breath hot on my neck. "Don't waste your time pining for corpses. Life is for the living, Ruslan, and I can show you just how alive I am."
I shove her away, harder than intended.
She stumbles back and catches herself. Then, all pretense of warmth disappears.
"Are you still mourning the little whore Vitaly killed?"
"And have you forgotten your role in her death?" My hands shake with fury. "You were the one who handed her to my father."
"Do you know why I did that to her?" Tamara's perfect mask cracks, and for a moment, the shadow of a scared nineteen-year-old girl swims to the surface. "I did it because I knew I would have to marry one of you, and I was terrified of marrying Lev. To you, he was the protective older brother who looked after you. But not to me."
My chest tightens.
"Your Lev snuck you candy behind your father's back." She steps closer, choking me with the overpowering scent of her perfume. "My Lev held me down in our bed for nineteen years while I screamed with tears on my face."
The raw pain in her voice is real. That's not something you can fake.
"For nineteen years, I dreamed that you would save me from him." Her fingers brush my jacket, "And now that dream is about to come true."
"I'm not your savior, Tamara." I step back, putting distance between us. "Go be a mother to your children. Go be a good daughter-in-law to my mother. They need you now more than ever."
Her eyes flash with familiar hunger before she masks it.
"Don't think you can walk away from me, Lanchik."
She gives my arm one final squeeze before she walks over to help escort my mother and nieces out the mansion.
When the door closes behind them, footsteps approach from behind and I turn to find the glacial blue eyes of Gregor Belov staring at me.
The godfather of the Zapadniye Vori , the pakhan of pakhans, stands before me in a pristine pale suit. His white beard is neatly trimmed and his presence fills the room even after everyone else has departed.
"Ruslan Vitalyevich, a quick word?" Gregor's voice carries the quiet authority that has kept the Zapadniye Vori unified for three decades.
My hackles rise immediately. Gregor Belov never requests "quick words."
"Of course." I gesture toward my father's office.
"No need." Gregor puts up his hand. "We can talk here."
I cast a quick glance behind him towards the stairs and notice that Aurora's door is still closed. I feel a small drop of relief that she won't bear witness to any of the awfulness in this world that I've dragged her into.
"What did you want to talk about, Gregor Iosifovich?" The words taste like ash in my mouth.
His pale blue eyes assess me like the winter sun challenges fresh snow. I can almost see the calculations running behind them, the assessment of my worth, my potential usefulness.
"A pakhan is dead," he finally says. "And so is his heir. The succession of the Dragunov Bratva concerns all of us in the Zapadniye Vori ."
I don't speak, choosing to let my silence prompt Gregor to keep talking.
"With Lev Vitalyevich and Mikhail Lvovich's unfortunate passing," Gregor continues, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his immaculate suit. "It would seem that young Mikayla Lvovna is next in line."
"She's fifteen," I snap. "Still a child."
"As I'm well aware, Ruslan Vitalyevich." His eyes never leave mine, cold and calculating. "Which is why I wanted to see you personally."
"Speak plainly, Gregor Iosifovich." My voice is calm despite the rage building inside me. "It's been a long fucking day."
"I'm here to formally offer you control of the Dragunov Bratva."
"Vitaly disowned me from the bratva succession," I remind him, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning inside me. "I have no claim."
Gregor waves his hand dismissively, as if my father's decree were nothing more than an annoying fly.
"The Zapadniye Vori can override a pakhan's decision," he says, "especially a dead one."
His tone suggests this is merely a formality. A small obstacle easily overcome. But I know men like Gregor Belov never show their full hand.
"What else?" I press.
"I've already spoken with Semyon Mikonov about this offer to you." Gregor's pale blue eyes crinkle slightly at the corners.
My fingers tighten imperceptibly on the armrests.
Of course.
The chess pieces are already moving.
That's the fucking way it goes in this world.
"Semyon has made it clear that he will agree to yielding the title of pakhan to you only if the existing ceasefire pact between your families remains intact."
I don't need him to spell it out. "He wants me to marry Tamara?"
The words hang between us like a guillotine blade, and I can suddenly smell the nauseating scent of Tamara's perfume clinging to me.
Gregor doesn't answer immediately, which is all the confirmation I need.
"What happens if I say no?" I ask.
"To which part? Being pakhan or marrying your sister-in-law?"
"Both."
Gregor's pale eyes narrow slightly. He rubs his thumb against his index finger. It's the only sign of impatience in his otherwise impeccable composure.
"If you choose to reject this offer, then control of the Dragunov Bratva passes to Mikayla Lvovna, and she will inevitably be ruled by Semyon." Gregor replies, his voice dropping lower. "The Mikonovs have been waiting for this opportunity for nineteen years."
My jaw tightens. Of course they have. Semyon has never forgiven my father for forcing Denis to kneel in submission.
"With all due respect, Gregor Iosifovich, that doesn't sound like my problem."
"Semyon is dangerously close to the Triads and their money." Gregor's voice hardens to steel. "If Mikayla Lvovna inherits the bratva, he will be too powerful to control."
"Again." A humorless laugh escaping my lips. "That doesn't sound like my problem."
Gregor's eyes narrow, and I know I've miscalculated.
"Lev has three daughters who all share the same claim," he reminds me, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "If you allow Mikayla Lvovna to inherit, then I will have no choice but to find men willing to marry the other two. Men who will gladly back their claims."
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
I know what he's suggesting. It's the same old power play that has always been an inescapable part of our world.
Inheritance. Marriage. War.
The unholy trinity in the pursuit of power.
"They're children," I remind Gregor. "All three of them."
"Yes, yes," he nods. "Sofia Lvovna is eight, and Stella Lvovna is seven. But age doesn't invalidate their claims. Nor would it discourage any ambitious man looking to place them in their father's seat."
The thought of my nieces being traded like commodities, married off to monsters two to three times their age—old men with dead eyes and cruel hands—all in the pursuit of power, is nauseating.
"And in case you've forgotten," Gregor says when I don't answer. "A normal bratva war has limits, but a claimant war has none. Reject this offer, and you sign the death warrants for your nieces. All three of them."
He's right.
Normal territorial disputes are negotiable. Maybe every once in a while, a few brigadiers or avtoritets are killed to save some face. For bigger disputes like what my father had with Denis Mikonov, a marriage is enough to ensure a peace.
But wars to press someone's claim? That's a brutal fight.
And when they end, rival claimants cannot be permitted to live.
If I refuse, Gregor will force my three nieces to fight each other until they're all dead.
I won't lose anyone else today.
"If I accept this offer, you promise that you won't try to broker marriages for my nieces?"
"I can only make promises for the two younger ones."
"I need it for all three."
"Mikayla Lvovna's fate is out of my hands. Semyon was very clear that the only scenario where he does not press her claims is where you marry Tamara Denisovna."
Silence stretches between us, heavy with threats.
"It would be easier to just marry your sister-in-law, Ruslan Vitalyevich." He shrugs. "Even if you have your personal grievances against her."
"Personal grievances?" My voice drops dangerously low, rage pulsing through me like a second heartbeat. "Have you forgotten what she's done? I will not marry her."
"Lev married Tamara to protect you," Gregor says, his voice cutting through my fury with surgical precision. "The least you can do is the same for his children."
"Don't pretend like you give a shit about Lev or his children."
"I don't." His eyes harden. "Nor do I give a shit about what Semyon Mikonov thinks he's owed. But I do give a shit about retaining this delicate balance of power in Los Angeles, especially after Vadim Stravinsky lit the fucking fuse last year during LA Fashion Week."
Lev's words echo in my head. The jungle is about to tear itself down. It's going to rebuild into something different.
His eyes darken. "You've been away from this world for far too long that you've forgotten the truth of it."
"And what truth is that?"
"This mansion is a luxury that you can afford." He waves his cane around. "Fucking Hollywood actresses is a luxury that you can afford. Fine vodka and clubs are luxuries that you can afford. But love? Love is a luxury you cannot afford. Because love is the death of power."
My hands ball into fists.
"Your father understood this," Gregor's eyes congeal into chips of ice. "Your brother understood this. It's time you did too."
* * *
Alone, I stand in the grand foyer, surrounded by all the trappings of my family's wealth and power.
But all I can feel is the crushing emptiness all around me.
I loosen my tie, feeling the weight of the day bearing down on my shoulders. In front of them all, I maintained the appearance expected of a Dragunov.
Cold. Composed. Untouchable.
But alone, I feel the familiar tightness in my chest threatening to crack open.
A door creaks upstairs, pulling my attention from the darkness threatening to consume me. I look up to see Aurora descending the staircase, bathed in golden light streaming through the open door behind her.
Her silhouette is soft against the harsh angles of this house, and her movements are hesitant yet deliberate.
For a moment, I'm struck by how out of place she appears in this mausoleum of memories. Yet somehow fitting, like a ray of light penetrating a fortress that hasn't known warmth in decades.
"Are you alright?" she asks softly.
Something inside me breaks. A hairline fracture appears in the wall I've maintained all day. With every step she takes, that fracture widens until a single tear escapes before I can stop it, trailing hot down my cheek.
I turn away, unwilling to be witnessed in this moment of weakness, but her hand finds mine. Her touch is warm, gentle. It's nothing like the firm handshakes and cold embraces I've endured all day.
Her simple touch soothes me in a way nothing else has today. Not the rituals of funeral preparations. Not the heartless nods of other pakhans.
Not even the tears of my mother and nieces.
Just her hand in mine.
I should maintain the distance that keeps both of us safe. But her touch feels like the first breath after nearly drowning, and I can't bring myself to break the connection.
"Don't," I start to pull away, but her fingers tighten around mine.
She doesn't speak, doesn't offer hollow words about how Lev is in a better place or how time heals all wounds. She simply stands beside me, her presence an anchor in the storm of grief that threatens to pull me under.
"That man," she starts.
"Gregor," I explain.
"Yes," Aurora whispers, her fingers still intertwined with mine. "I heard what he said."
My head snaps up. Those words weren't meant for her ears. The conversation with Gregor happened in the foyer, far from her room.
"How?"
"The heating vents." She gestures toward the ceiling. "Sound travels through them in strange ways. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but his voice carries."
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly.
Of course… The mansion's ventilation system has always been a great source of gossip. I suspect father had it done so that he might spy on his guests for information. Lev and I used to whisper secrets to each other from one corner of the house to another.
My thumb brushes over her knuckles. "Most people in this place wouldn't notice these things when they first arrive."
She looks down at our joined hands. "When you spend years hiding, you learn to pay attention to everything. Every sound. Every shadow."
That statement hangs between us, loaded with meaning I'm still piecing together. This woman notices things others miss. It's a valuable skill in my world, but a skill that's almost always learned at a great cost.
"So what do you think?" I ask, curious what she makes of the bratva's inner workings. "About everything you heard?"