Chapter 2
Chapter two
Matysh
I should’ve expected Catarina to be fucking infuriating.
Siren of a woman.
I take a few deep breaths outside of her room as I try to calm myself down. I’ve been patient, given the circumstances. I’ve forced myself to keep a roof over her head, feed her, and ensure she has everything she needs, and still…
Her obstinacy only serves to emphasize she’s no ally of mine.
“Vo chto ya vvyazalsya (What have I gotten myself into)?” I sigh as I sit down behind my desk and start thinking.
Every time I start making a plan to rectify what happened at the wedding, my mind wanders back to Catarina standing there in that lacy white dress, vowing to spend the rest of her life loving and honoring my brother.
But the certificate was never signed. It was never official. Her father should’ve just taken her home for fuck’s sake. But no, here I am, being the one who’s doing all the goddamned honoring.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to come up with some sort of answer to this dilemma. I want nothing more than to avenge my brother’s death. I also want nothing more than to rid my house of the woman who caused it.
Fucking hell.
My phone rings and I pull it out of my pocket to see Boris Petrov’s name on the caller ID.
I feel every muscle in my body tense, fighting the urge to ignore it.
I swear to God, if he calls one more time to check on his precious little daughter, I’m going to shove this phone right down his Petrov throat.
“We need to talk,” Boris says as soon as I answer, not bothering with pleasantries. “It’s important, and about our alliance in the future. Strictly business.”
“Meet me in Red Hook in an hour,” I say before hanging up the phone. Boris knows exactly where to go without giving him any more explanation.
I grab a leather jacket from the coat closet and leave the manor, keys to my motorcycle in hand. I carefully remove the tarp covering it in the garage, eyeing the blacked-out Ducati. I always told myself I’d never own an Italian bike, but some rules are meant to be broken.
When it comes to what I ride, anyway.
I swing a leg over and rev the engine, savoring the way she purrs as she comes to life. It’s about the only thing that could ever put anything close to a smile on my face. Something about knowing the adrenaline rush coming hits the spot.
I shift it into first gear and ease off the clutch, jetting out of the garage. Hopefully, this meeting is beneficial, and not a fucking waste of time. Because ever since the wedding, everything feels like a waste of time.
We’re getting nowhere.
The cold air bites at my exposed skin as I cut through it, leaving Kings Point to go all the way to Brooklyn in the dead of night. My heart rate quickens with every turn and lane split. Motorcycles and good pussy are about the only things that can get me going.
In a car, obeying all of the rules of the road, it would take about an hour and a half to get there. But it's a quiet night in the sleepless city, and I glide along the roads like a magnet is pulling me where I need to go.
All my thoughts vanish for the time it takes to get to Red Hook. I slow down as I enter Brooklyn, though, eyeing the streets. Even though it's 2:00 a.m. on a Thursday, people are straggling out of bars drunk and singing Christmas carols on the curb as they wait for taxis to take them home.
Holiday bullshit.
Red Hook is an old shipping district that has undergone rapid gentrification, transforming it into one of the trendiest neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Fifty years ago, it was mostly populated by people in my circles, but times have changed.
Now, many of the old, abandoned warehouses for shipping companies that have died off over the years are being converted into luxury loft spaces.
Have I had to bribe a few developers to keep them out of my spaces? Yes. But business is business, and I’ll be damned if I hand off my warehouses to a bunch of fucking hipsters.
I catch sight of Boris when I pull into the dead parking lot. He’s standing by a pier when I arrive. He’s got his gaze focused out across the waters, and oddly, I happen to recognize the strange way that his daughter has that thousand-yard stare as well.
It must run in the family.
I park the bike and head toward him, noting the man has his hands shoved in his pockets. I adjust my tie and remind myself of the Glock tucked safely away. It doesn’t make much sense for a Pakhan to take out another Pakhan—not like this.
But nothing about this whole fucking mess is making any sense.
Boris doesn't turn around when he hears me coming, instead he moves further away from the building and the surveillance cameras lining the public spaces.
“Ballsy to come on your own,” I grunt out from behind him. “I figured you’d have your enforcers trailing.”
“Same to you,” he spits back, still not bothering to meet my eyes like a man.
I follow him onto the pier, and we stop between two empty freight vessels. I recognize the logo on some of the nearby shipping containers, immediately identifying them as Boris's shipments.
“Catarina swears she doesn't know anything about what happened,” I begin, my voice short as I try to hide the distaste. “She’s also made it clear she no longer wants to reside at my estate.” I throw that out there, expecting to see some kind of reaction, but there’s none.
He wouldn’t show his cards like that.
“I would say she’s being truthful. I've been questioning everyone in my family, and no one seems to know anything either.” Boris huffs and shuffles his hands in his pockets before running one through his thinning gray hair. “I’m thinking it’s someone else objecting to the union.”
“This could’ve been the Vitale family,” I offer, shrugging my shoulders. “But until I have solid proof one way or another, you won’t see me pointing fucking fingers. That’s how I get my guys offed.”
“I see your reputation for calculation is accurate.” He pulls his lips into a tight line and nods his head. “The Vitales are not the sharpest, but maybe they’re foolish enough to think they could pit us against each other to stop the marriage.”
“Maybe.”
“Two rival families all gathered together for the first time in decades must have been a damn good opportunity,” Boris says through gritted teeth.
“Mauricio Vitale is a bold man. He has a lot to live up to in his father’s shadow, and this is the kind of move that would earn the family’s respect.
Nothing worse than being a goddamned Italian mutt in the Bratva world. ”
I don’t bother to join his speculation. I don’t give a fuck about mutts or pure bloods. I just care about giving whoever killed my brother a slow, prolonged death.
My mind runs back to the image of Mikhail on the floor, bleeding out at his own wedding. His final words to me as he took his last breath. My blood runs hot, and I feel my chest rising and falling with anger.
“We need a better plan,” I grit out. “Playing detective like this, questioning everyone without putting them under the knife—it’s not my forte.”
“Spilling more blood isn’t the answer.” Boris shakes his head, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Spilling blood is the only answer in many cases.” I shake my head. All these old timers have gone fucking soft.
“And you’ll have your blood in time,” Boris assures me, taking a few steps closer. “Right now, we need to send a message—to whoever is behind this.”
I hesitate, raising a brow. “And that is?”
“We stick together.” Boris pauses and looks at me, scrutinizing my expression. He’s waiting for me to explode, to have some kind of reaction to this bullshit of an idea.
I don’t give it to him.
“And what benefit does this have for me?” I narrow my eyes at him and crack my jaw. “If you wanted to play nice, you’d have called my father to this meeting. Not me. Everyone knows where I stand.” I lean forward, towering over him. “I have no intention of being your friend, Petrov.”
He chuckles, his icy eyes holding mine. “Which is exactly why you’re the one who needs to send the message.
I’ve already agreed to share my shipping territory.
We are more powerful as allies than as enemies—and the Vitales are getting stronger.
Once the bastard connects his blood to the don of the Accardos, we’ll be fucking toast.”
My stomach knots up at that. “What do you mean?”
“Mauricio is Jon Accardo’s bastard son,” Boris leans in. “That means that in the long game, he could pit the Dons against the Pakhans. Is that really what you want? To come up against Italian fucking slime?”
“He’d never.”
“And I’d never consider an alliance with you if it didn’t benefit our businesses and protect us.
Your brother's death has left both of us vulnerable. If we fall into fighting each other again, the sharks will strike. Maybe the Vitales, maybe the Morozovs.” Boris takes a few steps forward, standing only inches away from me.
I can see the passion burning in his eyes.
“If my blood and your blood are tied, then no one will dare strike one for fear of striking the other.”
I glare at him. “And for the sake of this, my brother died.”
“We have to show them that we stand strong regardless of their attack,” Boris continues, shaking his head at my refusal. “Mikhail died, but you're alive and well. You're the Pakhan, Matysh. What you do means something. You should marry my daughter.”
On, dolzhno byt', soshel s uma (He must be crazy). I shake my head and let out an incredulous laugh that only makes Boris angry. “Ni za chto (No way).”
“Ne bud' durakom (Don’t be a fool), Matysh,” Boris spits at me. His eyebrows are furrowed into a scowl as he glares at me. “It should have been you to begin with. You send the strongest message. Don’t let the name prevent you from getting your hands on the power.”
“The only message that’d send is a lack of my standards,” I spit back, shaking my head. “I don’t want your daughter.”
“Trust me, in due time you will. Don't let your ego get the better of you. You know as well as I do this is the only way.” Boris takes a deep breath and stares at me, his lips pressed tight together as he steps his hands back in his pockets.
“Either you marry my daughter or, as much as I hate to say it, you consider this war between us. We need peace, we need each other, and if you cannot set aside your ego, you are the fool, Matysh.”
Fuck. I shake my head, every ounce of my blood screaming to pull my Glock and rid the fucking world of Boris Petrov and his rancid deals. But unfortunately…
I know exactly what my father would do. And what he’d advise. And my ability to follow that guidance is what led me to my position in the first place.
It would send a message. A stronger one than Mikhail being the one to do it.
The Pakhan of the Volkov family marrying the sole female heir of the Petrovs? That’s a fucking match made in hell, and it does send a message.
That I can make the Petrovs my bitch, and rail their mouthy little heiress—all while still upholding my promise to my brother. I’ll keep her safe. And miserable.
Boris smiles and extends his hand. I stare at it for a moment, knowing that once I shake his hand, it's as good as being set in stone.
I take it, the old man’s skin like ice to my warmth. I prefer to keep my coldness where it belongs. My goddamn heart.
“Deal,” I say, forcing a smile on my face.
“Then it's done. You will marry my daughter and our blood will mix when she gives birth to your child,” Boris says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll arrange everything for the wedding. The sooner the better.”
“We can do it tomorrow,” I say, sparking an eager grin from Boris.
If I'm going to get married, I might as well get it the hell over with.
Besides, then the real fun can begin. Torturing Catarina.