4

ANDREY

One of Viktor's moronic henchmen is the first to reach them. He grabs the little lastochka by her arm and even from where I'm standing on the altar, I can see how she winces in pain.

"Carefully, mudaks!" I belt from across the room.

Leif appears at my side. "How do you want me to deal with this, sir?"

"Tell those untrained gorillas to keep an eye on both women until after the reception is over. I'll deal with it then."

Leif bows and scurries off to do as I ordered. I turn to my brother and his almost-bride, both of whom look as though they have no idea what to do next. Whatever is going on with those women, I'm fairly confident it's my brother's fault.

As usual, it falls to me to clean his mess.

So I turn to the buzzing crowd and plaster a fake smile on my face. "What's a Russian wedding without a little drama?"

The crowd laughs and the tension breaks. I nod in grim satisfaction and glance over at the priest. "Father Nevsky, please continue." I lower my voice. "Quickly, though. Skip the bullshit."

As soon as the ceremony ends—without any further interruptions, thank fuck—Viktor is suddenly very interested in playing the gracious host, ignoring my attempts to make eye contact with him. He knows he's in for the ass-chewing of a lifetime once I get him in my grasp.

The crowd swarms me as we collectively drift toward the reception. People asking for favors, paying compliments, or offering gifts in the form of alliances and their daughters' hands in marriage.

It's just shit on top of shit on top of shit, all the way down. This whole day has been a fucking disaster, from Nikolai's teenage spy to the elevator debacle with the gatecrasher to my brother's ongoing attempts to lower the bar for how little I expect of him.

But that's what being pakhan of the Kuznetsov Bratva entails: dealing with nothing but shit.

So I duck gracefully past the marriage proposals, negotiate with new partners, and reconnect with old ones. I manage my empire one exhausting conversation at a time.

But an hour later, I spy Viktor skulking in the corner with a bottle of gin in hand and I decide that I won't let him evade me any longer.

I corner him by the wall frescoes and pluck the bottle from his hand.

"A little early in the marriage to be driven to drink."

He rolls his eyes, though they seem to each go in different directions. "Be thankful I wasn't drunk for the actual ceremony. That's when I really needed a bottle."

"You gonna tell me what that was about?"

His gaze is fixed on the bottle I've just confiscated from him. "I'll tell you if you hand over the gin."

I skewer him with a glare that makes him shrink back against the wall. "What makes you think this is a negotiation?"

He coughs nervously. "It's not my fault, okay?"

"It never is. Answer the question."

"The blonde's name is Katya," he says with a weary, simpering sigh. "She's no one. Just this chick I fucked for a few weeks… or, shit, maybe it was months… I can't remember now. She's just sore because I dumped her ass."

"And the brunette?"

"The who?" He shrugs as my pulse quickens. "Oh. Nat something. Natalia something? Natalie? I can't remember. She's Katya's friend, as far as I know. And she can't be pregnant with my kid because I never fucked her. Although, trust me, I tried. Even suggested the idea of a threesome to Katya, but she turned me down flat. Didn't even?—"

"Enough," I spit, glaring at my brother in disgust. "God, you are fucking pathetic."

He draws himself up to his full height, though he's a little wobbly on his feet. "This is who I am. It's who I've always been." Then he slumps and casts his eye miserably around at the glittering festivities that have been arranged in his honor. "I never wanted any of this."

"You should have thought of that before you set your sights on Mila Obnizov."

"I didn't set my sights on her—I just wanted to fuck her. There's a difference."

"You ‘just wanted to fuck' my top smuggler's daughter, Viktor? What were you thinking? Do you not see how that is problematic?"

"She was a virgin, bro," he says, as though that's all the explanation required. "Do you know how rare it is to find one these days? It's a fucking unicorn in a sea full of donkeys. I had to have her. Just once."

"And now, you get her for a lifetime. Pozdravleniya."

"The fuck wasn't even worth it. Some unicorns just aren't worth riding." His gaze veers over to his new wife, who's sitting alone at the head table looking like she wishes she were anywhere else.

"Have you talked to Obnizov?"

Viktor nods. "Already explained to him that Katya's a crazy cunt. He seemed satisfied."

"And your bride?"

"What about my bride?"

"Did you explain the situation to her?"

He balks, derisive laughter and gin-laced spit spraying past his lips. "Why the hell would I? I have to keep her damn father happy because he's important to the Bratva. I don't have to keep her happy."

This conversation alone is enough to make me feel sorry for Mila Obniz— No, actually, she's a Kuznetsov now.

Forget congratulations; condolences are in order.

"You do have to maintain the status quo, however," I snarl. "I'm sick of cleaning up your messes."

"Hey, I married the bitch, didn't I? Just like you ordered." He steals the bottle of gin from my hand and takes a long swig that ends up dribbling down the side of his chin. He wipes it away with the sleeve of his jacket. "Looks like Otets couldn't be bothered to be here."

"What do you care if Slavik is here or not?"

"I don't care. I'm just saying."

Viktor never outgrew his desperation for our father's approval. He was never perceptive enough to realize that, by the unchangeable nature of his status as second son, he'd never mean shit to Slavik Kuznetsov. He took the lack of attention personally, having no idea he got the better end of the bargain.

I was the one who got fucked.

I have the scars to prove just how unfortunate it is when Slavik Kuznetsov takes an interest in shaping you as a man.

Meanwhile, as I was bleeding and suffering in the dirt at my father's feet, Viktor was fucking his way through half of New York, thinking that somehow qualified as an accomplishment.

And after Slavik fled the country in the middle of the night, with no warning and nothing left behind but a scrawled note and a wake of dumpster fires for me to put out, it fell to me to keep Viktor in line.

I thought he deserved a break.

I'm starting to think I've been too easy on him the last few years.

Viktor offers me the bottle, but I shake my head. "One of us needs to be sober for this thing."

"I don't see why," he says with a deranged cackle. "The only way to get through a wedding is to be drunk. Honestly, I don't know why anyone would subject themselves to this—" He breaks off, his eyes veering to me. "Well… you did."

"I never got married," I remind him gruffly.

"But you would have." He's always been braver when he's drunk. No way would he dare to bring up this topic if he were sober. "I've always been curious: what was it about Maria? Did she have some sort of golden pussy or?—"

In an instant, Viktor is spluttering, his eyes bulging like a toad's as I cut off his windpipe with an elbow to the throat. He keeps trying to choke out words, but I'm done listening to him talk.

"You're fucking wasted," I hiss. "It's embarrassing. If you want to keep toting around the title of Kuznetsov, then you'd better clean yourself up and start acting the part. Look around: do you see any of my men acting like a fucking joke?"

I release a tiny bit of pressure on his neck so he can breathe. A few guests have noticed the fracas, but the smart ones look away.

"I'm done making excuses for you, Viktor. You're not a boy anymore. Get your shit together."

I peel myself off of him and leave him there to lick his wounds. Anyone with an ounce of sense in their head gives me a wide berth as I stalk away.

"Boss…" Leif approaches me from around the cocktail bar with a grim expression. "I've got news. The girls that you asked Viktor's security to apprehend, they've… they've…"

"Spit it out, Leif," I rasp. "I'm not in the mood for guessing games."

"They've escaped," he finishes in a broken whisper.

"Four soldiers couldn't keep their eyes on two civilian women?"

Leif gives me a look. What did you expect from Viktor's goons? "Should I get a few men on their trail? They can't have gone far."

I could just let this go right now. The blonde was nothing but a scorned conquest from Viktor's past and the brunette—Natalia, I remember, tasting her name—was a hapless sidekick. Neither one has any connection to Nikolai Rostov, and neither one is pregnant with a Kuznetsov baby.

So what does it matter that I no longer have eyes on them? What does it matter if they got away?

In many ways, it's for the best. They can disappear into the night and I can turn my attention to more important things. Like crushing the last remnants of Nikolai Rostov's dying Bratva.

And yet…

"Find them," I order. "And if it comes down to a choice between the blonde and the brunette… bring me the brunette."