20. Dimitri
20
Dimitri
One Week Later
S ergei’s in a sour mood.
But I suppose losing your only brother in a gunfight would have that effect on a person. But when he chose to work with Patrick O’Leary behind everyone’s back, the dumbass signed his own death warrant. His act of betrayal led to multiple deaths, the destruction of a church, and almost cost Michael DiAngelo his life. If Patrick hadn’t shot and killed him, there's no doubt in my mind that Dante DiAngelo would have for putting his family at risk alone. And then Dante would have turned his gun on the Irish leader, but Patrick’s second, Connor Fraser, took care of him instead.
The old man’s descent into madness was so obvious that even a blind person could sense it. And there seems to be no love lost between the O’Leary brothers, because James O’Leary, the Irish mob boss in Dublin, hasn’t called for Connor’s head in retaliation for murdering his brother. Instead, he’s been supporting the new transition of power.
I know Jacob and Ford need to be updated on all of this, but Sergei has been consumed by his grief. He’s so devastated that he spends his days in that creepy mansion of his, growing increasingly paranoid. He insists that Patrick set up his brother, but with both men dead, it’s difficult to prove his theory. So finding a moment away has been near impossible and the last thing I need is Sergei turning his suspicions on to me.
Even right now, Sergei sits across from me in the car, drunk and sipping from a bottle like it’s water and not vodka. I understand the man is grieving, but he’s also the Pakhan of the Russian Bratva. He should act like it. The day I slap handcuffs on him can not come soon enough.
My phone buzzes, and I sneak a peek at it.
Angel: Michael is awake!
Resisting the urge to smile at her text is difficult. We’ve been messaging each other since that night in the hospital, catching up as friends would. We're trying to find a moment where we can meet and really talk, but it’s been challenging. With her balancing school and visiting family in the hospital and me stuck taking care of my drunk boss, our schedules just haven’t aligned.
Me: That’s wonderful news. How is he?
Angel: He’s going to have to stay in the hospital for a little while more, but being awake is a big win.
Me: I’m happy to hear that.
Michael has always struck me as a hothead and his actions last week in the hospital proved me right. If Gabriella hadn’t been there to act as a buffer, I’m sure blood would have spilled. It’s clear from that altercation alone that revealing our relationship is a terrible idea, without careful planning first. Just the very thought of us being friends didn’t sit well with her family. It made for a very awkward conversation with the Italian leader when I had to lie about how we knew each other through school and how in the heat of the moment I was the first one she thought of to call. Dante thanked me profusely, but I doubt Michael will do the same.
Angel: I’ll be sure to express your thanks to him. ??
I snort and immediately look up to see if Sergei heard me. He’s taking a huge swing from his bottle and is oblivious.
Angel: I wish I could be there today.
Me: I wouldn’t even be going to the funeral if it wasn’t expected of me.
Angel: My uncle Leo and Dom will be there.
Me: I’m sure Sergei will appreciate it.
Angel: Just as much as Michael will appreciate your gratitude?
Me: Just about.
I watch those annoying three dots appear and disappear several times before I glance up to catch Sergei looking at me now.
He burps loudly and wipes his face with a handkerchief. “Who are you texting?”
“No one important. Just confirming details for Igor’s wake.”
Sergei’s face drops into despair at the mention of his brother. “He was a bastard, but he was family.”
“He will be missed.”
“Don’t lie to me, Volkov.” Sergei throws his mostly empty bottle and it shatters against the window across the seat from me. The glass shards fall everywhere, barely avoiding me. “I know you hated the man.”
There’s no use denying it. “I didn’t say by me.”
Sergei grunts and levels me with what I assume is supposed to be an angry glare. But it's hard to appear threatening when you're as drunk as a sailor. “Maybe you set him up. You weren't there with him that night. Maybe it was on purpose.”
I’ve heard this same accusation at least twice a day for the last week. “You know I was with Alexei at the Playground when we got the call about the church fire. We had nothing to do with it.”
Another lie and one I will take with me to my grave. After the hospital, I immediately met up with Alexei back at the Playground . Being drunk helped loosen his tongue and erased my fears that Alexei knew about Igor's plan. And it was easy to convince my friend that I spent the entire night in my office.
“So you say,” Sergei hiccups.
“So I know.”
Sergei leans over his seat to a built-in cabinet and opens it to reveal several alcohol bottles. He grabs the tallest one and opens it, taking another large swing. At this rate, Sergei will need to be carried out of the car and helped to the gravesite. Hell, maybe he’ll just conveniently fall into the six-foot hole and join his bastard brother down below. But I’m never that lucky.
By the time we leave the graveyard back to the house, Sergei has sobered up a hair, but ordering the men to remove all the alcohol from our car may have had something to do with it.
“Where the hell is the alcohol?” Sergei growls as he searches through the empty cabinets.
I ignore his question and comment, “It was a nice funeral.”
“He deserved better,” Sergei grunts back. “He deserves to be alive.”
We’ll just agree to disagree there. Without his steady dose of alcohol, Sergei is drifting through the stages of grief. Anger, sadness, denial, bargaining. The only one he hasn’t experienced is acceptance, but I doubt he’ll cross into that anytime soon.
“Fucking O’Leary’s.”
Okay, that’s not what I expected him to say next.
“How’s that?”
“That Irish bastard, Connor Fraser, showing his traitor face at my brother’s funeral, of all places,” Sergei answers, venom coating his tone. “He should have been killed for what he did to Patrick.”
“Patrick’s brother didn’t think so.”
“Weak little shits. All of them. If any of my men tried something like that, I’d have them killed before their next heartbeat.”
I hear the threat cleverly veiled in his words and acknowledge it with a small nod, even though it weighs no heavier than a bug bite in my mind.
“Patrick killed your brother, Sergei. Connor came to show the O’Leary family’s respect and apologize for his father-in-law’s actions.”
“My brother’s killer deserved to die by my hands, not Fraser’s.”
Again, agree to disagree.
“The DiAngelos didn’t have to attend either.”
Sergei grunts, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “It was only Leo DiAngelo and his son.”
“We’re lucky they came,” I remind him. “We’re lucky any of them came at all, given the outcome of that night.”
“They just want to avoid a war,” Sergei spits.
He’s not wrong. There is no question that if Patrick or Igor survived, someone would be out for blood. The Irish against the Italians for having Rose and Liam. And the Italians against the Russians for kidnapping Rose and Liam and injuring Enzo in the first place. Their deaths make for a bigger headache for me when I give my report to the FBI, but all things considered, them dying was the best outcome for us all.
“You should as well. Do you really think it’s a good idea to start another war when we have the Triads breathing down our backs?”
Sergei snorts, and the small smile on his lips catches my eye. “The Triads are of no concern to me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
With a heavy sigh, Sergei leans back in his seat, rests his head on the headrest, and closes his eyes. “Nothing, Volkov. Forget I said anything. Now, please shut up. I have a headache and need to rest before we get back to the house.”
His words leave me feeling uneasy. The Triads have become a big concern over the last few months. As I expected, they’ve turned their attention to the Russians, and for him to brush them off so casually is unnerving. I pick up my phone and fire off a text to Alexei to get me everything recent we have on the Triads. I need to check on a few things. None of which is good if proven true.
There’s a crowd at the house when we arrive, all of whom offer their condolences and sympathies. Some are genuine, but most are as fake as the women’s terrible boob jobs and the men’s spray tans. To a stranger, it would appear that Igor was well liked among the Bratva men and women, but I know differently. They’re here to gain favor with the Pakhan. To put on a show for the boss and make an impression to get whatever it is they really want.
I leave Sergei to his undying fans to search out Alexei since he hasn't responded to my text and find him in my office, sprawled out on the couch with a blonde on his lap. A very familiar blonde.
“Sophia?”
Sergei’s daughter peers over her shoulder, sporting a saucy smile with her smeared red lipstick. “Oh, hi, Dimitri.”
“What are you doing here? Your father said you weren’t due home until after the holidays.”
Sophia climbs off Alexei’s lap and straightens her already short dress. “That was before my uncle was killed. I’m here to show my support for the family.”
“Why weren’t you at the funeral, then?”
“My flight landed an hour ago,” she explains, walking to a mirror to fix her smeared makeup.
“Then shouldn’t you be downstairs by your father’s side? Showing him this support of yours?”
“Shouldn’t you?” she challenges with a raised brow in the mirror’s reflection.
I narrow my eyes in response. “I’m not his family.”
Sophia’s face twists into a scowl. “No, but he sure would like you to be. I’m just his daughter.”
She spits out the last word as if it tastes bad in her mouth. Which to her, it does. A girl heir in the Bratva means nothing more than a princess did centuries ago. Royal blood that is only good for one thing…a royal womb.
Sergei’s suggestion floats to the front of my mind. A marriage between me and Sophia. From the way she looks me up and down in the mirror, she knows about it, too.
Alexei makes an exasperated sound as he climbs to his feet, before making a very obvious gesture about fixing his pants in front of us. “Did you need me, boss?”
“Yes. Did you get my text?”
He checks his phone and reads over my message. “Just got it.”
Sophia purposefully sighs loud enough to get our attention because Lord forbid if it’s off her for more than five seconds. “Well, I should get downstairs. Will you accompany me, Dimitri?”
I catch Alexei's frown and see a flash of disappointment cross his face before it disappears when Sophia links her arm through mine. She pulls me out of the office with Alexei trailing behind us like a hurt puppy dog. When we get to the bottom of the stairs, I spy her father in a deep conversation with someone on the phone.
He hasn't noticed us yet, allowing me to overhear him say, “—expect a delivery. Young and—”
“Daddy!” Sophia exclaims, effectively cutting off whatever conversation Sergei was in, and I could kill the girl for it.
Sergei cuts off his phone call and smiles at his daughter, welcoming her into his arms. I catch his curious gaze over her shoulder. He's wondering if I overheard him. I did, but not enough. So why does he look like he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar?