Chapter 2
ANTON
Blood sprays from the man’s mouth. The enforcer doesn’t stop there. On the other side of the tinted window, the deadliest Sokolov soldier raises his arm and strikes the traitor again. This time the rat’s head lolls to the side, hanging down as he strains to breathe through the blows.
“I didn’t do it!” he cries seconds later, red dribbling down his mouth, a tooth clinging crookedly. “I didn’t steal it!”
The enforcer pivots toward the window, aware I’m watching. If there were any mercy to grant this man, I’d rap on the glass and signal a pause.
I don’t. I don’t move toward the wall that partitions me from the latest defector in the organization.
Witnessing enforcement isn’t something I need to do.
It’s not even something I care to bother with anymore.
Every man in this family has earned my trust, from the spies and bookkeepers who flagged this supervisor for embezzling Bratva money to the guards and soldiers who beat our enemies before finishing them off. I trust them all.
Viktor, my long-standing assistant and former bodyguard, approaches from the other side of the small viewing room in the basement of this restaurant, one among many that we operate.
I spare him a cursory glance, intrigued by what has him smirking so smugly. Yet the punishment being doled out in the other room holds my attention too. I won’t confess that this kind of justice pleases me, and watching this asshole get what he deserves is mildly entertaining.
Not much keeps my interest these days, anyway. After ruling one of New York’s most powerful crime families for twenty years, I’ve fallen prey to boredom.
“Well?” I ask.
Viktor faces forward, watching this man get his due for stealing from the family. He doesn’t need to supervise the punishment either, but since I’m here, he’s faithfully at my side, like always.
“That call I stepped out to take confirms that they’ve recovered most of the funds,” he replies.
“Good.” Sometimes it takes days, weeks even, to retrieve stolen funds. That’s one of the pains of digitized banking. But I have full confidence in the men working for me, like everyone else in the family does, especially those in the control rooms operating the maze of our computer network.
“I also received a call about Roman.”
I stare ahead, blanking my features at the mention of my son. My only child. My heir.
The one person who has yet to earn a speck of my trust or respect.
Roman Sokolov should be a prince in this city, next in line to rule and wield all the wealth and power I’ve amassed over the last two decades. Instead of proving himself in any way, he garners my attention only when he inevitably screws up and needs my help.
“Now what?” I ask, deadpan.
“He was partying uptown last night,” Viktor replies, no-nonsense about it. I can’t tell if his tone is this blunt because it’s far from the first time Roman’s fucked up and made a mess he can’t clean up himself, or because he’s just as annoyed with the idiot as I am.
“Color me surprised,” I mutter.
“It’s not as bad as the debacle over New Year’s Eve,” Viktor quips mildly.
I arch one brow, facing forward as the enforcer hits the man again. “Not as bad?” I huff. “It’s a fucking waste of my time to expect anything but bad from him.”
Viktor nods, well-versed in my attitude toward my son.
“At least no politicians were nearby this time,” he adds.
“You mean no underage and thoroughly intoxicated daughters of any politicians,” I amend.
Roman’s love of partying surpasses his love of not doing a goddamn thing that might help the Bratva.
Out of pity, I gave him the task of acting like a consultant last year, just so he’d have an excuse to say he does something.
His entire financial expertise amounts to spending money without a thought for what it costs.
Raised under my ex-wife’s watch, Roman was conditioned to be spoiled.
Fed with a silver spoon. Expected to do nothing but fake a charisma that comes across as phony ass-kissing.
His vices exceed his skills, and his appetite for causing scandals and living the high life seems endless.
For those reasons alone, he will never earn my trust. He’ll never receive a vote of confidence from me.
It’s precisely why I let him think he has a job acting as a consultant for minor accounts all while delegating someone else to do the actual work for him after the fact.
“Perhaps he will outgrow his frivolous nature,” Viktor says as he shoves his hands into his pockets.
I turn slowly, done with my interest in this traitor who deceived me and lost my favor by stealing from the Bratva.
He’s paying for it with his life. Roman steals from me just the same, albeit as my supposed heir.
I don’t bother wondering what he’ll ever pay for.
His mother will shelter him from any consequences, no matter what.
A sigh is all I can give him. “Oh, you think?”
Viktor lifts one shoulder and lets it fall as he joins me in leaving the room. I’ve seen enough. I’ve also heard enough about Roman.
Leading the Bratva comes with a bounty of headaches, but anticipating Roman’s behavior is becoming an epic annoyance. “I’m supposed to be able to look forward to him taking over in my place.”
Viktor smirks, opening the door for me and exiting after me. “Is this another one of those days when you start admitting you’re getting old?”
I shoot him a side-eye. He’s the only one able to match my dry humor, if and when I care to show it.
“No.” At forty-six, I’m a young pakhan. But it doesn’t matter if I don’t have an heir I can have faith in leading the next generation.
This is merely my turn in leading the Sokolov family.
Thinking of Roman following in my steps fills me with dread.
“Then is this one of those days when you might have the patience to speak with Elena?” he asks as we climb the stairs to leave this level of the basement cells.
A meeting is next on my agenda.
Then another.
After that, renegotiations about a drug deal.
Then checking in on a few matters with our allies.
Patience is low in stock for me on any given day. But my free time—even to deal with my ex—is absolutely out.
“She wants to speak with you about Roman.”
I step out into the alley, heading toward the car idling for me in the wintry darkness. Loathing my useless son and being expected to speak to his mother leaves me cold as ice. Like always.
Once I’m in the backseat, I pull out my phone and scroll for her number. I have all her calls routed to Viktor’s phone so he can gatekeep nuisances. In the spirit of getting this over with, I dial her and wait for that whiny voice.
“Hey, baby,” she purrs.
“What do you want?” I don’t care if she thinks I’m terse. I really don’t give a damn if she assumes I’m annoyed, either. I can’t stand her and I’ll never miss an opportunity to remind her of that fact.
“I want you to go easy on our boy.”
She never misses a chance to remind me that we share a son.
I close my eyes for patience.
None comes.
“He’s not a boy.” He’s twenty-six, yet, he doesn’t know how to act like a real man.
Rubbing my forehead, I already regret calling her.
“But he’s not you. He’s not a cold workaholic who doesn’t know how to let loose and have fun sometimes. Roman’s a wonderful, free-spirited soul who doesn’t deserve to have to pay for the hotel damages from his party last night. He shouldn’t have to—”
“Ever accept responsibility for fucking anything?” I growl, cutting her off.
This argument is the same broken record it always is with her. She protests that Roman is a perfect son who can do no wrong. And I can turn blue in the face when I point out how he does nothing but assume the world revolves around him all because he happens to be the Sokolov heir.
“He’s our only son, Anton,” she says smoothly, a practiced line.
I grit my teeth at her use of our. Yes, Roman is the child from my short and much-scorned marriage to Elena. But I detest any hint that I share anything with her.
“He’s our only son, and he’s our future.”
I shake my head, wishing for anything but that.
For the blessing of another woman who’d make me want to be a better man, not merely get through day after day of managing this empire.
For the chance to count on another heir who’d make me proud and contribute instead of treating me like a bank account.
“As a matter of fact, we should meet up, Anton. To discuss Roman’s future. I’ve been hoping to catch up with you, and—”
I cut her off once more. Ending the call abruptly is the only way to spare myself a full-on migraine.
I set the phone in my lap and turn to watch the scenery of the nightscape blur by out the window.
Instead of the irritating obligation of putting up with her or Roman, I try to look forward to my next business deal, because at this rate, burying myself in work is all I can do to stay sane anymore.