9. Mikhail #3
The cartels are ruthless, everyone knows that, but the Nozares are something else.
They control their territory more effectively than the actual government does.
If one of their men gets hurt or taken, they’ll shut down entire cities in Mexico until they get what they want. That’s the kind of control they have.
We’re different from them in how we operate.
We stay behind the scenes, keep our names out of newspapers, avoid having people talk about us at all.
Any publicity is bad and none of us want it, which is exactly why he just ripped me a new one.
Almost everyone knows our name, but nobody dares cross us because they know what happens when they do.
Last year, Yulian gave me and Daniil intel about a warehouse that we fed to the family, and Alexei ended up shot and almost died because of it.
They blamed us, of course, even though we had followed Yulian’s instructions to the letter. Everything he said, we did. But it didn’t matter because when things went wrong, it was easier to blame us than admit someone else fucked up or the plan wasn’t as solid as they thought.
“Yulian told me something last week. I didn’t bring it up because we hadn’t confirmed it, but we have now,” Father says, and leans forward, fingers drumming on the table.
“There’s a rumor that Santiago has dementia.
That’s why he’s been acting erratic. There’s a power struggle happening with the cartel. ”
Lev shifts in his seat, crossing his arms. “How reliable is this information?”
“Very reliable,” Yulian says. “Multiple sources confirmed it independently. Santiago’s losing it. His cousin Omar has taken over everything now.”
Father rubs his temples. “They hit our Baltimore airstrip. Again. I’m getting tired of this pattern. I need someone to contact Alexei and tell him that he needs to go with Calder to the Baltimore strip and find out more information about this situation.”
The hypocrisy doesn’t escape me. Using Alexei for the dangerous work but making us deliver the orders instead of calling him directly. All because Alexei likes men and Father is a fucking bigot.
“If this dementia situation is true, then Santiago will be hitting us more frequently. Erratic behavior, poor decision-making, desperation. That’s not something we need right now with the Vegas extension and everything else,” our father says.
Yulian leans back in his chair. “What’s our play if the power struggle escalates?”
“We adapt. But first we need intelligence. Real information, not speculation.”
My eyes dart over to Daniil. He’s not looking at me, just stares down at the table completely silent. His face is blank, that careful neutral expression he wears when he doesn’t want anyone reading him.
Our father keeps talking, but his voice starts to blur.
Because suddenly I’m remembering something. His lips brushing against mine. Soft and warm and real.
Did it actually happen?
The memory comes in pieces. His hands coming up to my neck, maybe pulling me closer. The heat of his body pressed against mine. The way he gasped into my mouth when I deepened it, or did I imagine that part?
My mouth opens slightly, and I stare at him across the table. He notices and glances at me for half a second, then looks away fast and stares at the floor instead like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.
It happened… Didn’t it?
“Mikhail,” Father’s voice cuts through, and I snap my attention back, realizing everyone’s looking at me.
“Hm?”
“Are you listening?”
“Yes, Papa.” I have no idea what he just said.
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t call me out. “Good. Then you understand what I expect from you.”
I nod because what else can I do? My brain is spinning, trying to piece together what happened. Is that why he’s avoiding me?
What did I do?
I was so fucked up from the drugs. I took five benzos after the shower hoping to knock myself out, then smoked two joints with him when we got into bed. Everything’s hazy and fragmented, but the memory of his mouth on mine feels too real to be fake.
My hands come up to my face, and I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. Panic slams into me so violently I can’t breathe, my lungs seizing up and refusing to work properly. Air won’t go in, won’t come out, just sits there trapped in my throat.
I shoot up from the table and claw at the corner of my t-shirt, pulling at it desperately like the fabric is choking me. The chair tips backward and crashes onto the floor.
Everyone’s staring at me now with disappointment written all over their faces. They probably think I’m high right now, that I came to this meeting wasted.
Stumbling towards the door, my vision starts blurring at the edges.
“Mikhail!” Father’s voice cracks, his hands slamming onto the table hard enough to rattle everything on it.
Ignoring him, I push through the door, barely staying upright as I make my way down the hallway.
I slip inside my office and slide down to the floor with my back against the wall, bringing my shaking hands up to my face.
I keep gasping for air that won’t come. Each breath feels like trying to breathe through a straw, thin and insufficient and terrifying.
He’s my brother.
The thought loops through my head on repeat, making everything worse.
I grinded against him, I remember that part. I grinded against Daniil, and the memory makes my stomach twist. Was I hard? That’s the part I can’t remember, and it’s driving me insane.
I must have been, right? You don’t just grind on someone unless you’re into it, unless your body is responding. The memory sits there in my head, hazy and fragmented. And I liked it, I know I liked it in the moment.
But did he? Did I make him uncomfortable? Did I cross a line I can’t uncross?
Fuck.
What is wrong with me?
I’ve shared beds with him, held him when he had nightmares, protected him from everyone, including our own family.
And then I got too wasted and violated every boundary we’ve ever had? Did he even want that, or did he just let it happen because he was scared to stop me? Because I was wasted and unpredictable and he didn’t know what I’d do if he pushed me away?
What if he was scared of me? What if he thought I’d hurt him if he said no?
I was so out of it I can’t even remember if he was into it or if he was just frozen, letting it happen because he didn’t know how to make me stop. What if I forced myself on him and I don’t even remember? What if I’m the kind of person who does that and doesn’t even know it?
My chest heaves and my vision blurs at the edges. The panic attack has its claws in deep now, squeezing everything tight. I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars, trying to ground myself, trying to make my lungs remember how to function.
But all I can think about is the way he felt against me. The sounds he made. How much I want it to happen again, which makes me even more fucked up because what if he didn’t want it?
What if those sounds meant he was just trying to survive it, trying to get through it until I stopped? All I know is that I want him again and that makes me sick.
I can’t fucking breathe.