12. Matvey

12

MATVEY

I hate I-told-you-so 's.

No, more than that: I despise them. There isn't a single string of words more annoying than that, in the English language or in any other.

The fact that Grisha isn't saying them doesn't fucking help matters.

Because he's sure as fuck thinking them. I know it; he knows it; hell, even the goddamn hot dog man on the curb behind me knows it. If he had it tattooed on his face, it wouldn't change a thing—that's how obvious my third-in-command is being.

And the worst part is… he's right.

I doubted him. I had him followed by the same man who was pulling my leg the entire time. And when he tried to tell me—when he tried to point out Yuri's suspicious behaviors to me, or worse, my own failings—what did I do?

I bit his fucking head off. I pushed him out of the inner circle, accused him of being disloyal, even threatened him in the middle of the street. I did everything short of kicking him out.

And I was goddamn wrong.

He greets me next to the car, expression impassive. " Moy pakhan ."

But all I hear is, I told you so.

"Grisha," I say back stiffly.

But all I want to say is, Shut up. I know.

We get into the car. Grisha merges into the rush hour New York City traffic. "I saw April at the penthouse," he mentions offhandedly. "She seemed glad to have her friends back."

I told you so. "Hm."

"I also saw Yuri there. He left with Petra soon after, though."

I told you so. "I see."

"I spoke with the vory , too. It appears this won't be a friendly meeting."

I told you so. "Grisha."

"Yes?" he asks innocently.

God fucking dammit. And they say wives are passive-aggressive. Whoever "they" are, they've never had Grisha Aldonin drive their car.

"… Thank you," I grit out. "For your continued loyalty."

Grisha's eyebrows arch skeptically in the rearview mirror. "I wouldn't dream of being anything but loyal."

I told you so. "And I appreciate that. What you've done so far… and what you'll continue to do."

"You sound confident that I will."

"Yeah, well, you haven't given me cause to be disappointed yet."

"‘Yet.'"

I roll my eyes. "Can we drop the fucking act already?"

"What act?"

"Jesus fucking—alright, fine: I was wrong . Happy?"

For a moment, Grisha doesn't say anything. Then: "You know, you have the same uncanny ability your grandfather had."

"And that would be…?"

"Saying ‘sorry' without actually speaking the word."

I snort. "Your father told you that?"

"He did. Several times." For the first time since the ride began, I glimpse the hint of Grisha's old smile in the mirror. "Must be a family talent."

Grisha's father. That's how I found him all those years ago. I wasn't looking for him—I was looking for Yakov Aldonin. My grandfather's second.

But he was dead already.

His son, however, was interested in what I had to say. He was the first to join my cause after Yuri. The first to believe .

He'd grown up watching his father kick ass. More than that, watching him protect his pakhan and being protected in return. That's what people looked for in a Bratva back then: a bond. A pack.

A brotherhood.

Lacking any parents or elders, Grisha took his role in that pack seriously. He was the lowest-ranked, but the oldest in age. I have no idea if he was always the mother hen type, but with us… Let's just say that, after we found him, we didn't have to raise ourselves anymore.

If I were a better man, I'd acknowledge how shitty I've been to him. As his pakhan and as his friend.

But I'm not a better man. Everything good I had in me has been turned to ashes along with my heart. If I ever had anything to give, it was for her.

Now, I'm empty.

Luckily, Grisha seems content with his lot. Has to be, really. How else would he have put up with me all these years otherwise?

"I hope this means you'll listen to me every now and then," he quips.

I bark out a laugh. "Now, where's the fun in that?"

"Not a friendly meeting" is the understatement of the year. As soon as I enter the office where the meeting is to take place, I can feel the temperature plunge. It's like dipping a toe into the Arctic.

Then it begins.

Once upon a time, my vory used to be terrified of me. I wasn't just respected—I was feared . That's the prerequisite of every pakhan : if you can't make your men fear for their lives at the slightest slip, you're just not cut out for the gig.

But now, my men are no longer mincing words. Worse than that, they're pushing back against me.

When the Solovyov half of the table joins in, I realize who's behind it all.

"I have to agree with the others," Vlad coughs and spittles all over the table. "Between the botched acquisition, losing track of your own newborn, and now, this mess with the Italians… let's just say there's been more than a few setbacks, son."

"Not to mention the business has been suffering." Ivan twists the knife. "Our partners and top clients have seen you decline every request to meet over the past four weeks. If they were feeling neglected before, now, they're outright scorned."

"‘Scorned'?" Grisha laughs. "Forgive me, Ivan. I wasn't aware that our pakhan was supposed to treat his business partners as wives."

Ivan fires back, "If he treated them like his wife, he'd pretend they never existed at all."

I slam my palms on the table and rise. "Enough . "

I didn't want Yuri here today—that's on me. I needed him elsewhere. But it's one less voice to speak in my favor on a shitty fucking day to be without advocates. If there's one thing I hate more than I-told-you-so 's, it's politics.

Petra could have helped, though. After all she's done to fuck up my life, I wouldn't even have to ask—she'd side with me in a heartbeat. If she was allowed to be here, she'd bring the Solovyovs around with a single glare.

But with her pregnancy so heavily publicized, it was the worst possible timing in the world to push for her promotion to vor , so she's not in this room, either. No, if I want to get anything done here today, I'll have to rely on the one person who never let me down.

Myself.

After my outburst, I look every single vor in the eye. Aside from Ivan, none of them dare hold my gaze, not even Vlad. That's the thing about packs: take their members one at a time, and they'll be nothing but lone wolves, ready to roll on their backs and whine pitifully at the first hint of an alpha's teeth.

So I bare my fangs. "While you squabble over minor setbacks and missed dinners, I've been hunting for our enemy. The one who botched our D.C. deal, who tried to kidnap my daughter three times and failed—and who now threatens the very existence of our organization."

Then I whip out a picture and toss it over to the center of the table.

The vory lean in like chickens over scattered grains. "Who is this man?" Stanislav asks.

"Carmine Bonaccorsi," I snarl.

The table falls silent.

"The Bonaccorsi family?" Vlad frowns. "As in, the Italian mafia in D.C.? What do they have to do with us?"

"Everything."

It's Ivan who steals the word right out of my mouth. But he spits it out with disdain, like he's just seen a bug crawl over his papers. "Is this what we've become then, Matvey? A personal vendetta you can't let go of?"

"No."

"Then—"

"This is what we've always been."

The vory fall quiet in unison. Ivan's lips press into a tight, white line. It's my turn to speak. Their turn to fucking listen .

"You of all people should know that, Ivan. You were there at the beginning. Since the first Groza Bratva, am I wrong?"

"I served your grandfather with pride," Ivan snarls. "He was a great man with a great vision."

"Yes. And he's dead."

I watch Ivan bristle at my words. Good. Let him lose his cool, for once. "How dare you?—"

"No, the question is how dare you. All of you." I start walking around the table, circling. Right now, I want my men to feel like prey. To remember what it's like to be at the bottom of the food chain. "Let me make something perfectly clear: I brought the Groza Bratva back from the ashes. I gave it new life. I gave it a new purpose."

"And that purpose is revenge?" Ivan questions.

"The purpose is survival," I retort. "Unless you've forgotten what it was like back in Russia…?" I throw a wide glance around the table. "I know not all of you were there back then. On those grounds alone, I'll forgive you this time—so long as you never fucking forget again."

"But pakhan ," Ipatiy tries to amend weakly, "we are surviving. More than that, we're thriving. Surely it's not worth it to pursue old grudges now?"

"‘Old'?" I bark out a laugh. "Did you all forget I just found my kid two days ago? That those mudaki tried to murder her twice while she was still in the womb?"

"What does that have to do—?" Gora starts, but I cut him off.

"Everything!" I roar. "An attack against my blood is an attack against me. And an attack against me is an attack against you. Because, unless you've forgotten about this, too, I'm still your pakhan. "

"So what do we do?" Ipatiy asks, panicked sweat dotting his forehead.

"We go to war."

This time, the silence is different. Half-terror, half-awe.

"We go to war," I repeat, loud enough to rally the troops, "and we fucking win . Unless some of you prefer to run?"

No one speaks another word. No one goddamn dares.

"Good. Dismissed."

As the vory file out one after the other, both Ivan and Vlad look back at me with something sharp in their eyes.

"You got them back under control," Grisha mutters once they're out.

"For now," I sigh. "I swear, this is a fucking mutiny in the making."

"They're testing the hierarchy." He shrugs. "Like wolves. Checking if their alpha's still up to the task."

"How do they do it?" I lean back in my chair, fucking exhausted. "The wolves?"

"Usually, they kill each other."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

I let the silence fall, but we're both thinking the same answer to my unspoken question.

"Hope" isn't good enough.