Chapter 21 - Nadya #2
I have no words left for Iosif. I stare desperately at my brother, my mouth opening and closing in rounds like a fish struggling to survive out of water, until I give up on being able to say anything at all. He stares back, looking as winded as I feel.
Love. I love Viktor—in all of his fucked-up complexities.
Now that I’ve said it, I see it—I see it in every action I’ve taken since the morning I snuck out of his bed.
I see it in every lie of omission, and outright, I’ve told in service of his safety and whatever wouldn’t tear us apart.
I think of how I’d felt when Valentin had pulled me off of him in the container.
The screaming in my head, wailing, Not yet, not yet, not yet.
This love looks nothing like the kind between Iosif and Janella. It’s almost all teeth, and not many of them are of the sweet variety. It’s exchanged barbs and volatility. It is adventure, spontaneity, and a whole, in-perpetual-motion world on fire.
The idea, this throwaway fucking suggestion, that I am going to lose him—that our flash-in-a-pan togetherness is all I’ll ever have with him—makes me want to rip the paper off the walls.
How the fuck do I put it into words? Do words exist that could possibly encapsulate this destructive tornado that’s swirling within me?
“What,” is all I can say.
Iosif, for his part, looks miserable about having to deliver the news.
“If our brother doesn’t off him, his brother will,” he explains.
“Half-brother,” I correct automatically.
He rolls his eyes at that but bites his tongue. “I’m sorry about it. If you—if you’re really in love with him. I’m sorry.”
It isn’t enough. It isn’t fucking good enough. I refuse to accept it. No.
“Do you really mean that?” I wonder, looking intently at him.
“You know I fucking do,” insists Iosif heatedly.
My chin juts up in defiance. “Then help me,” I spit, sucking in a sharp breath through my nose to scald my eyes for stinging.
***
Notably, Iosif doesn’t knock on this door before entering, letting me go first. “We need to talk,” he announces.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve ventured into Trifon’s office.
It’s never held any interest for me. There’s always been a clear demarcation between the rest of the many acres of the estate and the office.
Now, I wonder if it’s because it has an offensive amount of Boy’s Club energy that repels women.
Walking in, that theory seems more than likely.
All the mahogany furniture and leather is a bit of overkill.
It’s all too fucking dark, like someone told the decorator the whole aesthetic was vintage machismo.
There’s a chance my current resentment toward my elder brothers colors my opinions, but I still have the same eyes I’ve always had.
The dark color scheme is oppressive as fuck to me, regardless of my mood.
And that mood just may remain fucking rotten, so long as Darya and I are always banished to the other side of the door.
Nothing more than little bratva princesses who need to be protected.
We could eat most of the men we encounter alive, actually.
Can Trifon see this from behind his enormous desk? Can Val, as he lurks by the window with his arms determinedly crossed over his chest? No, they don’t. Both of them look to Iosif, first, to explain what the hell he’s doing bringing me here.
I could laugh. I could also lose my shit.
Neither will help, however, which means I can’t afford to succumb to either urge. I have to tamp down on them and let my brothers stare agog while I take the liberty of pouring myself a drink no one else offers me.
Vodka splashes into a piece of the crystal low-ball glasses that’ve been in our family forever. “Can I top anyone off?” I offer dryly.
“No, thank you,” Trifon says, while Iosif groans, “I’ll take the whole fucking bottle, Jesus fucking Christ, please.”
I wave the decanter at him, and he pads across the rug to my side. Summoning him isn’t an accident. I figure there’s solidarity in numbers. Two against two is less weird than two against one with one anxious spectator.
Iosif can look freaked out while standing next to me.
His presence steadies my own nerves a little.
“I’ll make you a deal,” the vodka helps me say.
Valentin’s eyes bore into my skull like lasers.
It’s almost easier to be confronted by the stiff bob of Trifon’s head. “Go ahead, pisklya.”
“Release Viktor back to Anton Zakharov. No more torturing him, he’s given you all the information he’s going to give,” I start.
I fill my lungs for the rant to follow. “If you let him go, I know you’re concerned it’ll weaken your position in front of the rival gangs.
But that’s not enough of a reason. I know I can’t appeal to you to let him go just because I’m asking.
Clearly, that’s not reason enough for you. ”
My anger rears its ugly face, rearing for a fight I won’t allow.
I bite into my lip. I know that my brothers know that I’m not saying everything. Still, the words remain lodged inside me. Dammed up, lest the flow of them cause too much damage.
“I’ll sign the annulment papers. I will cooperate. You can triple down on security, and I won’t ditch them. I’ll agree to move in here until you’re cool. But only if—”
“Only if we release him into Anton Zakharov’s custody. I heard you,” Trifon says wryly.
“He’s got to be worth more alive than dead,” I argue.
Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
The word rings on in my head, leaving me sick to my stomach. My mouth floods with bitterness.
“We’ll consider it,” Valentin says gruffly.
“So he can be dead by the time you’re done considering it? Fuck that,” I snap, slamming my glass down hard enough to shatter it. I don’t even look down at the shards in my fist.
I fist them hard, daring them to confuse this for a mere threat.
“Knock it off, Nadya,” Valentin growls, taking a step toward me. Terror floods his face, and it stabs me in the heart to do this to him. To this to any of them. But they’re not giving me a choice. They love me so much, and they can’t see they’re killing me.
It has to be this way.
Vehemently, I shake my head. “No. Nope. Either this happens tonight, or no deal. I will jump off the roof out of fucking spite, I swear to God, guys. Not only will you lose me, but you will also lose me while I am a Zakharov.”
“Nadya,” Iosif pleads behind me.
It takes everything in me not to whip around at the pain in his plea. But I can’t. If I do, I just might lose my nerve. And Viktor’s life depends on this.
Trifon leans his chin atop his steepled fingers and watches me for an itching, endless moment. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to squirm beneath the microscopic scrutiny on the other side of his vividly blue, incisive scowl.
An eternity passes before he exhales, at last.
“You promise to let him go?” he questions.
Automatically, I reply, “I promise. I will sign those papers if you release him safely to Anton.”
These statements do not mean the same thing.
I count on my brothers, relieved at my compliance, not to question it.
It helps that it isn’t my best-case scenario.
I can only imagine Anton Zakharov, this man I have never met before, yet who is such an important figure in the life of all these men I love, and what he will do to the man I’m in love with.
But this is what I can do for Viktor, and so I will do it.
If I can take care of my brothers, I’ve got faith that Viktor can handle his. If only because he fucking has to. This just can’t be how we end, not without a fight, not on my watch.
Guess it’s a good thing there’s no such thing as a moral Yuri, right?