Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Ania smiles, taking my hand, and we walk into the house together. Yuri, the old butler, stands in the hallway with his hands behind his back. His hair is almost entirely white now. His dedication to his job is such that, until it’s time to work, he won’t even move.
“Hello, Yuri,” I say.
“Hello, sir.”
“He finally arrives,” Mikhail says, walking down the large double staircase. At the top, dominating one wall, there’s a painting of Mikhail, our mother, father, and me. This was painted shortly before our mother left. Sadly, she wasn’t able to enjoy her freedom. She passed away from a vicious flu that took her unexpectedly. Ania was a baby then but isn’t in the painting. Our mother didn’t want our father’s bastard involved, she said. She was better than our father but still had her mean side.
Mikhail has thick, black-framed glasses perched on his head, holding back his brown, floppy locks. His hair is long to his shoulder, and he’s wearing a cardigan sweater and jeans with little holes in them. He’s always been the more “trendy” one.
Mikhail doesn’t even try to hide how unbothered he is, drawing a concerned look from Ania. He bumps my fist. “Howdy.”
“Try to take this seriously,” I tell him, glancing at Yuri.
Mikhail snorts, clapping Yuri on the arm. “Yuri knew just what type of man our father was, don’t you, Yuri?”
“I’m only here to serve, Master Sokolov.”
Mikhail laughs darkly. “I guess we need to talk business, brother?”
I nod, wishing we didn’t have to. I wonder how soon I can get that painting removed. I’ll put a new one in its place—one that includes Ania. The work looks shoddy, anyway. Maybe I can get Lia to paint something.
Ania follows Mikhail and me as we walk toward the staircase. Mikhail waves a hand at her. “It’s probably better if we do this alone, Ania.”
He doesn’t even look at her as he speaks. I want to give him a sharp slap to the head for being so rude, but our father died today—a few hours ago. I’ve got to give him some slack.
“It’s okay, Ania,” I say. “We’ll talk later.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the spare,” she snaps at Mikhail, then strides off toward the left, most likely toward the basement door.
“I don’t think she likes me,” Mikhail says as we walk through the house together.
“You could make more of an effort with her,” I tell him.
“Maybe.” He readjusts his glasses. “Are the others coming?”
By the others, Mikhail means the other Bratva men, the soldiers, the lieutenants, and everybody else. I lower my voice as we walk down the wide hallway together, past classic paintings that somehow seem bland when I think of Lia’s sketch. It wasn’t even a complete painting—just a sketch—yet it had more of an effect on me than any other work ever has.
“We need to be careful.”
Mikhail glances at me, then nods. “We don’t know which men are our father’s… and which are loyal to you.”
“Bingo,” I grunt as we walk into the study.
“You should sit at the desk,” Mikhail says, dropping into an armchair and waving a hand at the large desk. “You’re the boss now.”
“I don’t need to do that.” I sit in the other chair. “You know what I’m going to ask you.”
“Yeah, the same thing as earlier. It’s not like I can say no now, is it? It’s not like I can abandon you to deal with this alone.”
“So you’ll be my zamok.” My underboss. “You’ll help me clean up this mess and stop this city from falling apart.”
“Damn, brother. That seems a tad dramatic.” Mikhail places his glasses on the arm of the chair, then smooths his hair back into place. “I thought everything was running smoothly.”
“It was, but now, unless I marry Mila Petrov, our father arranged for the city to be handed over to her father.”
“Marry her, then,” Mikhail says. “What difference does it make? Or have you found somebody else?”
“Don’t be stupid,” I growl with a tad too much aggression. It’s like I’m trying to convince myself as much as him. “We can’t let the Petrovs dictate what we do. Our father said he notified several key men about this arrangement. If Mila Petrov isn’t a Sokolov by the fall, the city is his.”
“What’s that, then? Three weeks?”
“About that. That’s why I need your help. I need a list of the most likely candidates, off-the-books, involving nobody else. I need to know who’s loyal to us, not our father.”
“What about the ones who are loyal to our father?”
I look at Mikhail coldly. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Imagine being almost forty and still being treated like a kid.”
“I thought you wanted nothing to do with this.”
“If I’m in now,” he says, “I might as well be all in.”
I shrug. “I’ll exile, hurt, or execute them, depending on how much of an issue they want to make of it.”