18. Artem
Artem
I'm three sets into deadlifts when Misha finds me.
The gym is the one space in this apartment that's actually mine. No couch for uninvited guests. No kitchen counter for women who make me insane. Just weight and effort, and nothing that talks back.
Misha leans in the doorway and sighs.
I know that sigh.
I pull the bar off the floor, hold it, and set it down. Strip a plate. Do it again.
"She doesn't want to rush it," he conveys evenly.
"That's what she told me. Needs more time.
It's too fast." He comes in, drops onto the bench I'm not using, elbows on his knees.
He looks sulky, which on Misha is a rare enough look that I'd find it interesting if I cared.
"She didn't even mention the roses I bought her. "
I pull the bar.
"Not once. She sat in here for an hour and didn't say a word about them." He spreads his hands, confused. "Two hundred and forty roses, Artem."
"Yep."
"Two hundred and forty. Do you know how much that cost me?"
He’s an idiot.
I know she hates roses.
He doesn't know her at all.
He knows what she lets him see, which is a carefully managed fraction of who she is, and he's never been curious enough to look for the rest. That's the difference between Misha and me, I suppose. He's content with the surface of things.
Not my problem.
Except it keeps feeling like my problem.
"She'll come around," Misha mutters more to himself than to me. "Benedikt pushed the timeline. It was fast. She just needs to get used to it."
"Or maybe she just doesn't want to marry you."
He looks at me, then scowls. "Helpful. Thanks."
"I'm not here to make you feel better."
"Yeah. I know." He rolls his shoulders. "Benedikt thinks it's the right move. Colin Gallagher's reach on the eastern corridor alone—"
"She was on your laptop," I divulge evenly. "First week you brought her around. I saw her going through your files."
"She was probably just…" he trails off, and I watch him land on the easiest explanation. "Using it and looking something up. Big deal."
"She was going through your files, not browsing. Looking for something specific, and trying not to leave a trace."
The room goes quiet for a beat.
"You don't like her," he conveys evenly, as if that will sway him one way or another.
"Not the point. She's a mafia princess—"
"It kind of is. You've had a problem with her since day one, and now you're telling me she's a spy based on the one time you saw her on my laptop."
He's not an idiot.
He's a fucking idiot.
"Based on a pattern." I strip another plate and reset the bar. "Colin Gallagher has been building toward something for months. The Manifold connection, the task force. He wants people inside the oversight structure in this city. You think he handed over his daughter because he suddenly trusts us?"
"People make alliances—"
"Colin doesn't make alliances. He makes investments." I pull the bar. "And right now, you're the investment. Which means she is, too. And when he comes to collect, it won't look the way you're expecting."
Misha goes quiet long enough that I think he might actually be understanding what this all means. Then he says, "Five million."
I look at him.
"He's giving me five million for the dowry."
I set the bar down. "Five million dollars."
"It's traditional."
"No power. No territory. No leverage. Just money."
"Five million is a lot of money."
"We have money, Misha."
"It's a dowry." He says it like the word is supposed to mean something. "Benedikt agreed. It's done."
"Benedikt sees the upside and has decided the risk is manageable. He's not the one living here when it goes wrong."
"It's not going to go wrong."
"You're trying to marry a woman who doesn't want to marry you."
"She'll come around."
"She won't."
"You don't know her like I do."
I look at my brother and think about everything packed into that sentence and everything that's missing from it.
"I know you," I retort. "So, where were you last night?"
He doesn't answer right away, but when he does, I get one word. "Out."
"With?"
“A blonde. She’s a nobody. One night.”
"You're trying to marry the only daughter of Colin Gallagher, and you were out last night with someone else."
"I'm not married yet."
"You're with her. And she's not a nobody."
"I'm always with someone, Artem. That's not new. That won’t change."
"Does she know that?"
"She doesn't need to."
"So you've been cheating on her," I hedge. "And you think that's how men go into a marriage?"
"Since the beginning." No hesitation; just a man stating a fact that he made peace with a long time ago. "She doesn't need to know, Artem. It hasn't been a problem."
Hasn't been a problem.
I think about her in my kitchen this afternoon.
Spine against the counter, chin up, three and a half inches of blade she believed would stop me.
The way her voice dropped right before the door opened.
The searches I flagged on her phone, the apartments in other states, the bus routes, the cheap rentals, and a woman quietly building an exit while everyone around her makes plans that don't include her opinion.
She doesn't know that he's been running around on her since day one.
She's been playing her role carefully and completely, and he's been treating it like a game with no consequences, and the two of them are about to get married, and I'm standing in my gym listening to my brother tell me it hasn't been a problem like she's a footnote in his story.
It pisses me off more than it should.
"She's Irish," I remind him. "Colin Gallagher has made men disappear for a lot less than what you're describing. Her brothers aren't understanding, either. And you think you're going to marry her and keep doing this?"
He smirks. "I'm good at not getting caught."
"You're telling me right now. Sober and voluntarily."
"You're not going to tell her."
He says it like it's settled, and he's right. Telling her means explaining how I know, and that conversation opens something I haven't figured out how to handle.
"You're a fucking idiot, Misha. When in your life has settling down with one woman been something you wanted? Why bother?"
"People change."
"You were out last night with a blonde. You don't change."
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
"Colin Gallagher is not going to stop running intel on this family because there's a wedding," I tell him. "He's going to have someone on the inside instead. And you're going to be sharing a bed with her." I pick the bar back up. "Benedikt looked at the number and called it clean. It's not."
"You've made your point." He stands, done with it, and ready to move on. "Several times. I got it."
"Then act like it."
"Artem. I'm going to marry her. Five million dollars and a woman I genuinely like. That works for me. She'll come around." The corner of his mouth lifts. "They always do."
"Yeah?" I narrow my eyes at him. "And since when the fuck do you need five million dollars and a woman?"
Misha glowers at me. "Since when the fuck do you care?"
"Since I'm Benedikt Volkov's right-hand man and you traipse around this city like a dog in heat wanting to fuck everything that moves." I set the bar down. "So, one more time, Misha, why do you want five million dollars? Better yet, why do you need it?"
His nostrils flare.
He turns on his heel and walks out, and the door slams hard enough that I feel it in my chest.
I stand there in the quiet that follows.
He didn't answer the question.
Which is its own answer, and not one I like.
I grab the bar and pull until my muscles burn, hoping I stop thinking about it.
I don't stop thinking about it.