Chapter 2
ANDREY
Isit in the library of my estate, watching dust motes dance in the morning sunlight that streams through the tall windows. The leather chair beneath me is comfortable, the room warm, and the company… well, the company is testing every ounce of my patience.
"The weather has been quite pleasant lately, hasn't it?
" Sophia Belyaev says from the chair across from me, her hands folded primly in her lap.
She's dressed impeccably, as always, her long black hair styled perfectly, her green eyes bright with what I can only assume is forced enthusiasm for this conversation.
"Yes," I reply, taking a sip of my coffee. "Very pleasant."
She smiles, and I notice how her curves fill out the modest dress she's wearing. She's an attractive woman, there's no denying that. But attraction isn't enough. It's never been enough.
"I was thinking we might attend the charity gala next month," she continues. "It would be good for our families to be seen together. Father thinks it would send the right message to the other families."
Of course he does. Bogdan Belyaev has been pushing for this union for years now, ever since I made the mistake of telling him I'd "think about it" when he first proposed the match. That was three years ago, and I'm still thinking. Or at least, that's what I tell him.
The truth is, I've already made up my mind. Sophia is nice enough. She's intelligent, though she hides it well, trained from birth to be the perfect Bratva wife. She believes in family and tradition, all the things a Pakhan should want in a wife. On paper, she's perfect.
In reality, she bores me to tears.
"Perhaps," I say noncommittally, setting down my coffee cup. "We'll see what my schedule looks like."
She nods, accepting my non-answer with the grace she's been taught. "Of course. I understand you're very busy."
We sit in silence for a moment, and I resist the urge to check my watch. It's only been twenty minutes since she arrived, but it feels like hours. I search for something, anything, to talk about that might make this less painful.
"How is your father?" I ask, immediately regretting it when her face lights up.
"Oh, he's well. Very well. He was just saying the other day how much he's looking forward to…" She trails off, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "Well, to future developments."
Future developments. Right. Like a wedding that's never going to happen.
I'm saved from having to respond when the library door opens and Matvey steps inside.
My sovietnik is an imposing figure at six-foot-three, his long black hair pulled back in its usual ponytail, the scar on his right cheek a reminder of battles past. His dark eyes meet mine, and I see something there that makes my pulse quicken.
News. Important news. A chance to get out of this boring ass meeting with Sophia.
"Pakhan," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "Business."
I'm on my feet before he finishes the word. "Excuse me, Sophia. I'm afraid duty calls."
She stands as well, smoothing down her dress. "Of course. I understand. Perhaps we can continue our conversation another time?"
"Perhaps," I say, already moving toward the door. I feel a twinge of guilt at my eagerness to escape, but not enough to slow me down.
Matvey and I walk down the hallway toward my office, our footsteps echoing on the marble floors. I don't ask him what this is about. Not here, where anyone might overhear. The estate is secure, but I didn't become Pakhan by being careless.
Once we're inside my office with the door closed behind us, I turn to face him. "What is it?"
"Informant," Matvey says, getting straight to the point as always. He's never been one for unnecessary words. "At the warehouse. He might know about Pushkin."
My heart slams against my ribs. "Yegor Pushkin?"
Matvey nods once.
I move to the window, looking out over the grounds of my estate.
Nine years. It's been nine years since that bastard testified against several Bratva families and then vanished like smoke.
My family wasn't one of the ones he testified against, but that doesn't matter.
What matters is what he did before that. What matters is the massacre.
I close my eyes and I'm seventeen again, standing in my mother's bedroom, staring at her body.
At my sister's body. Both of them gunned down in what everyone said was retaliation, a war between families that got out of hand.
But I've never believed that. The massacre twelve years ago was too organized, too thorough, entire families wiped out in a single night.
That kind of coordination takes planning.
It takes someone with connections, with knowledge of security systems and guard rotations.
Someone like Yegor Pushkin.
And then there are my family's heirlooms. Icons and jewelry that had been passed down through generations, worth a fortune, both financially and sentimentally. They disappeared around the same time as the massacre. Coincidence? I don't believe in coincidences.
"How reliable is this informant?" I ask, turning back to Matvey.
He shrugs, a slight movement of his massive shoulders. "Unknown, but I think he's worth checking."
He's right. Even the smallest lead is worth following when it comes to Pushkin. I've had men searching for him for years, chasing shadows and rumors across two continents. Every lead has gone cold. Every trail has ended in nothing.
But maybe this time will be different.
"Let's go," I say, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair.
The drive to the warehouse takes twenty minutes. It's one of several properties I own throughout the city, this one located in an industrial area near the docks. Perfect for the kind of business that requires privacy.
Matvey parks the car and we head inside.
Two of my men are waiting, standing guard over a man tied to a chair in the center of the empty space.
He's middle-aged, balding, with the soft body of someone who's spent more time behind a desk than in the field.
His face is already bruised, one eye swollen shut. My men have been busy.
"Who is he?" I ask, circling the chair slowly.
"Low-level associate," one of my men answers with a shrug. "Works in records management for a couple of families."
Records management. That could be useful. If anyone might know where Yegor went, it would be someone with access to financials.
I stop in front of the man, studying him. He's trying to look brave, but I can see the fear in his eyes. Good. Fear makes people talk.
"Do you know who I am?"
He nods, swallowing hard.
"Then you know I don't have time for games. My men tell me you might have information about Yegor Pushkin."
"I don't know anything," he says quickly. Too quickly. "I swear, I don't know where he is."
I sigh. "That's disappointing. I was hoping we could do this the easy way."
I nod to Matvey, who steps forward and backhands the man across the face. The sound echoes through the warehouse. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.
"Let's try again," I say. "Yegor Pushkin. Where is he?"
"I told you, I don't know!" His voice rises in panic. "He disappeared after the trial. No one knows where he went."
"But you know something," I press. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."
He shakes his head frantically. "I don't. I swear on my mother's grave, I don't know where Pushkin is."
I study him for a long moment. He's telling the truth about that, I can tell. But there's something else, something he's holding back.
"Matvey," I say quietly.
My sovietnik moves with practiced efficiency. He pulls out a pair of pliers from his jacket pocket, and the man's eyes go wide with terror.
"Wait!" he shouts. "Wait, please!"
I hold up a hand, and Matvey pauses. "I'm listening."
"I don't know where Pushkin is," he says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "But… but I might know something else. Something that could help you."
"Go on."
He hesitates, and I can see him weighing his options. Loyalty to the Bratva code versus self-preservation. It's not much of a contest.
"The daughter," he finally says. "Pushkin's daughter. Mariya."
My pulse quickens. I'd almost forgotten about her. She'd been eighteen when Pushkin testified, just a girl. I'd seen her a few times at Bratva gatherings in Russia, always quiet, always staying close to her father. Blonde hair, green eyes, pretty in an understated way.
"What about her?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
"She's here," Volkov says. "In the United States. In this city."