A Date for the Bratva Boss (Holidays with the Bratva #9)

Chapter 1

Konstantin

The silence is perfect.

I sit in my leather chair, feet propped on the coffee table that cost more than most people's cars, and savor the rare peace of my penthouse. The city glitters below, Vancouver's nighttime sprawl stretching to the water. It's past midnight. Most people are asleep.

No footsteps in the hallway. No running commentary on my life choices. No accusations that I work too much, eat too little, and will die alone without giving her grandchildren.

My mother has been gone for exactly four hours and twenty-three minutes.

The vodka in my glass catches the city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows. I take one sip—smooth, expensive, perfectly chilled—and set it down with the satisfaction of a man who has finally reclaimed his kingdom.

My phone rings.

I stare at it. The name on the screen confirms what I already know: the universe has a sense of humor, and it's cruel.

Mama

I could ignore it. I should ignore it. She's visiting Severny Harbor for a few days—some Christmas gathering she insisted on attending even though I told her the roads would be terrible.

She's probably calling to tell me about someone's baby or someone's engagement or someone's excessive happiness that she believes I should replicate.

The phone continues ringing.

If I don't answer, she'll call seventeen more times, then contact Andrei to confirm I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere. Then she'll call again.

I answer. "Yes."

"Kostenka!" Her voice explodes through the speaker with enough force to make me reconsider my earlier appreciation for technology. "Synok, finally you answer! I call and call—"

"You called once."

"—and I think maybe you are dead, but Andrei says no, you just ignore your mama who only wants to hear your voice—"

"I'm hearing it now." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What do you need?"

"Need? Need?" She switches to rapid Russian, her preferred language for guilt delivery. "A mother cannot call her only son just to talk? You think I need reason? Bozhe moy, what I did to deserve such cold child—"

"Mama."

She switches back to English, barely pausing for breath. "Fine. Fine! I call because we have... situation."

The way she says 'situation' makes my jaw tighten. In my line of work, situations involve blood, money, or federal investigations. When my mother says it, I'm somehow in more danger.

"What situation."

"Well." She draws the word out like she's savoring expensive wine. "You know how I come to Severny Harbor for Christmas gathering, yes? With Dimitri and Anya and family?"

"Yes." I didn't know she was invited, but this isn't the time to mention that.

"And everyone is here—all the family, the wives, even the children, such beautiful children, Natasha is so big now, and Natasha—"

"Mama. The situation."

"Oy, you rush me! This is important part! So everyone is asking about you, where is Konstantin, why he don't come, such successful man but always alone—"

My hand tightens on the glass. "I'm working."

"On December twenty-first? Is not even Orthodox Christmas yet! American Christmas is in four days!"

"I run a criminal organization. Crime doesn't stop for holidays."

"Such excuses you have! Your cousin Dimitri, he runs bigger operation than you, he still makes time for family! He has wife! He has daughter! He brings them to Christmas!"

I count to three in Russian. It doesn't help. "Why are you calling me about this."

Silence.

This is worse than the yelling.

"Mama?"

"I maybe... tell everyone you are coming."

My eyes close. "I'm not coming."

"And maybe... I tell them you bring girlfriend."

I open my eyes very slowly. Outside my window, Vancouver continues existing. Inside my chest, something that might be panic stirs for the first time in twenty years.

"What."

"Don't use that voice with me! I am your mother! You treat me with respect!"

"What girlfriend."

"Well, I don't have name yet—"

"Mama—"

"—because you never tell me anything! You think I don't notice? Eleven months you go to same coffee shop! Eleven months! Same time every day! You think your mother is stupid? You think I don't see your face when you come home with coffee? You think—"

"I need coffee." My voice is flat. "It's a convenient location."

"Pah! You have espresso machine in kitchen! Five thousand dollar machine! You brew own coffee before you leave, then you go buy more coffee, then you come home with face like... like..." She searches for words. "Like man who sees purpose in life! Like you see something good!"

This is not happening.

She's right, of course. She's always right.

I do have a five-thousand-dollar espresso machine.

I do brew my own coffee every morning—perfect temperature, perfect grind, perfect ratio.

And then I drive across the city to a mediocre coffee shop in a neighborhood I have no business being in, and I order a black coffee I don't need.

Because she's there.

Jemma Dean. Twenty-two years old. Social work degree from UBC, graduated with honors.

Works opening shift Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at Bean & Leaf on Granville.

Takes her break at 2:15 PM every shift, sits in the alley behind the shop and reads romance novels—the dark ones, with possessive men on the covers.

I know this because I've been watching her for eleven months.

Eleven months of large black coffee placed on the counter at exactly 8:47 AM. Eleven months of her smile when I walk in—genuine, warm, the kind that lights up her whole face. Not the polite version she gives other customers. I know the difference. I've catalogued the difference.

Eleven months of knowing she walks home via Davie Street, not Robson, because Robson has that coffee shop where her ex-boyfriend's roommate works and she'd rather add six minutes to her commute than risk running into him.

That she lives alone in a 450-square-foot apartment in East Van that I've personally verified has adequate locks and a functional security system—and yes, I have keys.

For emergencies. In case she needs help.

I know she keeps her apartment at 71 degrees. That she drinks chamomile tea before bed. That she rewatches the same comfort show when she's anxious—some British baking competition. I've verified the streaming history through entirely legal means.

Well. Mostly legal.

The background check was eight months ago. Necessary, I told myself. What if she had dangerous associates? What if someone was taking advantage of her? What if someone else noticed her?

Forty-seven thousand dollars in student loan debt. No family—parents died in a car accident when she was nineteen. Few close friends. Works too hard for too little money at a job that doesn't challenge her.

She needs someone to take care of her.

She needs someone to notice her.

And I've been noticing her for a while now.

I have photos saved on my phone. Not inappropriate ones—just her smile, her laugh, the way she moves through space like she's dancing to music no one else can hear. Screenshots from the coffee shop security cameras I may have accessed. For safety purposes.

There's one from last week where she's reading during her break, completely absorbed, bottom lip caught between her teeth in concentration. I know what page she was on. Chapter sixteen. The hero just realized he can't stay away anymore, that restraint is its own kind of violence.

I found that oddly relatable.

Eleven months of leaving tips that started at twenty dollars and gradually increased because the pleased surprise on her face is worth any amount of money. The most recent was a hundred dollars. Andrei thinks I'm losing my mind.

He's wrong. I'm being generous.

And restrained. So fucking restrained.

I go to her coffee shop three times a week instead of every day. I don't follow her home—I simply happen to know her route. I haven't spoken to her beyond placing my order because what would I say? How does a man like me talk to a woman like her?

I've been protecting her. From me. From my world.

"I don't have a girlfriend," I tell my mother.

"But you WANT girlfriend! I see! Mother always knows! You leave house, you come back different. Something makes you happy. Is woman, yes? Must be woman! What else makes man smile like idiot?"

"I don't smile."

"You don't frown as much! Is same thing! So I tell everyone you bring girlfriend! Beautiful Russian girl, perfect for you!"

"She’s not Russian. You don't even know if she exists."

"But she DOES exist! You just say 'she'—not Russian, you say! AH-HA!"

Fuck.

I drain the rest of my vodka. It doesn't help. "There's no girl."

"Liar! You know her nationality! What else you know? You think about her, yes? This is good! This is what I want for you!"

I say nothing. This is my best defense. My only defense.

It doesn't work.

"Fine! Don't tell me! But I already tell everyone you are bringing girlfriend, so now you MUST bring girlfriend! You fix this!"

"You fix this. You're the one who lied."

"I don't lie! I predict future! Mother's intuition!"

"Kostenka." Her voice shifts, going soft and wounded. This is more dangerous than the yelling. "Please. Please, synok. I tell everyone you are coming with girlfriend. I tell Dimitri! I tell his mama! They all so happy for you, finally my Kostya finds someone, finally he stops being alone—"

"I'm not alone. You live with me."

"Is not same! I am old woman! I die soon—"

"You're sixty-eight and healthy."

"—and then what? You be all alone in big penthouse! No wife! No children! No one to take care of! You work and work until one day—poof!—you are dead, and who will cry for you? Who will—"

"Mama—"

"—light candles? Who will remember you were person with heart, not just pakhan? Not just boss! Just man! My son!"

She's crying now. Actual tears. I can hear them in her voice, in the way her breathing catches.