4. Chapter 4

4

Leonid

B lyat’. This day’s already a waste of my time.

I stalk into the restaurant, my presence announcing itself louder than any pompous décor ever could. Pizda, I don’t give a shit about the expensive chandeliers or the perfect little table settings. My mind is still back home, where Clara Caldwell and her kid, Elijah, are.

I wonder if she’s awake yet. Or still unconscious. Suka.

I should be there. Not here.

I shove my thoughts aside as the manager rushes forward, his sharp suit a clear sign that he knows exactly who I am.

“Mr. Kuznetsov,” he greets, head dipping in a quick bow. His voice is smooth, but the way his eyes flick nervously to my face says everything. “Your table is ready.”

I nod, not bothering with pleasantries, and follow him through the restaurant.

The lunch crowd hums around us—polished business executives in tailored suits, soft clinks of chopsticks on ceramic plates, and the murmur of conversations that stop when I pass by. Eyes dart toward me, some in curiosity, others in quiet recognition. No one dares to hold my gaze for long.

The scent of grilled fish and miso drifts through the air, mixing with the faint floral notes of the restaurant’s decor, a blend of Japanese elegance and modern luxury. Low, soft lighting reflects off lacquered tables and pristine white walls, each design element calculated to impress, to make people feel like they’re part of something exclusive. But all it does is irritate me further.

Aleksei. That’s the reason I’m here.

The old man’s a relic. Nine years since Papa’s gone, and he still thinks his word carries weight. The last time he pulled me into one of his “important discussions,” I nearly walked out. But I’m here now. Because he wouldn’t stop calling—texting me with his same tired tricks, dropping Papa’s name like that would change something.

“Leonid, Andrei, the Pakhan knew how to balance the business. You should come hear me out. The Pakhan would have wanted it.”Always Papa . The guilt trip never changes. I clench my fists, jaw tight. Blyat’, the old bastard still knows how to push my buttons.

“Your private room, sir,” the manager says, stopping in front of a door at the far end of the hallway. It’s different from the others—taller, darker wood, with intricate patterns carved into the frame. Not some basic corporate design but something traditional, almost ceremonial. A deep red lacquer, polished so smooth that the light from the ceiling glints off it.

Tap, tap.

The manager knocks twice softly and waits, eyes flicking toward me like he’s wondering if I’m impressed by the theatrics.

I’m not.

He slides the door open with a smooth, practiced motion. The shoji screen door glides into the wall with hardly a sound, a small gesture that feels more dramatic than necessary. I catch the faint scent of incense, mixing with the sharp smell of soy sauce and something sweet.

I look around, scanning the room. High-pitched giggles hit my ears first—some arm candy at the far end of the table, leaning in close to whatever Aleksei’s saying to the businessman beside him.

Suka! Looks like…

I catch the tail-end of whatever flowery bullshit Aleksei’s saying to the businessman sitting beside him.

He hadn’t told me much when he called earlier. Just that there was “a very important matter” to discuss.

Last time he said that, I ended up in a room full of aging mobsters trying to sell me on some idea about expanding into real estate. Waste of time then, and I have no doubt this is going to be just as painful.

I step inside and let the door slide shut behind me, my eyes narrowing on the setup.

This screams one thing—Aleksei is trying to rope me into another one of his grand schemes.

At the far end of the table, Aleksei is deep in conversation with a man whose body shape catches my attention—short and pudgy. I don’t recognize him at first, but something about his posture, the way he hunches forward like he’s trying too hard, pisses me off.

As I move closer, the recognition clicks. Fucking Kensington. He’s the same guy whose company has been dancing on the edge of bankruptcy for years. The Feds have been sniffing around him, too—he’s dirty but not smart enough to cover his tracks. The kind of trouble that attracts more trouble, not someone I want to deal with.

Aleksei turns his head slightly, catching my entrance.

“Ah, Leonid,” Aleksei says, waving me over like this whole thing was my idea.

My blood boils at the thought of all the precious seconds being wasted on this bullshit.

“Come, sit. We were just getting to the important part.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I don’t sit. I stand there, towering over the table.

Kensington beams at me like I’ve just walked on water. “Mr. Kuznetsov,” he says, rising halfway out of his seat, hand extended. “It’s an absolute pleasure. I’ve heard nothing but incredible things about you. Your reputation, your… discerning taste.”

I glance at his hand but don’t bother taking it.

Discerning taste?

A soft giggle breaks through my thoughts. I blink, my eyes flicking toward the sound, and realize the two women sitting beside Kensington are whispering to each other. Their heads are close together, eyes darting toward me like I’m some exhibit they’re dying to see up close.

Zaebis’ . Now I know what this is. A fucking match-making session.

Kensington isn’t alone.

The two women sitting beside him are both angled toward me like they’re the main event at this circus. The younger one, maybe early twenties, is wide-eyed like she’s just seen a rockstar. Her makeup is layered thick, trying too hard to look older, but there’s still that fresh-faced cluelessness about her. The other one is late twenties, and it shows. There’s something sharp about her features, but it’s buried under the layers of fake tan, too much filler, and more Botox than any human should have. Her lips, over-plumped, curl into what I assume is supposed to be a sultry smile, but all I see is desperation.

Aleksei motions again for me to sit.

Poshol na khuy.

If Aleksei hadn’t been in the Bratva for as long as I’ve been breathing, I’d put a hole through his skull right now for wasting my time like this.

I clench my jaw so hard I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack, but I finally give in, dropping into the chair across from them. It’s not respect—it’s obligation. Aleksei was loyal to my father, Andrei. And while that loyalty keeps him alive, it doesn’t mean I won’t make him pay for this later.

Kensington, the sweaty little pig, shifts in his seat like a child trying to impress a strict teacher. His fat fingers smooth over his silk tie—probably sweating through that, too—and he flashes a nervous smile. His skin is pale, but his forehead shines with an oily sheen, the kind that makes me want to slap the grease right off him.

“Mr. Kuznetsov,” he starts again, his words spilling out too fast, “I’ve been following your ventures for years. Such discerning taste, in art, in business, in… everything.”

More lies.

I stare at him, patience wearing thin.

This fool has no idea who I am. Or maybe he does, and he’s just that desperate. I can see the sweat pooling at the edges of his temples, dripping down his neck. He’s trying too hard to keep his cool, and it’s pathetic. Every word out of his mouth is another lie, another ploy to get me on his side.

I lean back in my chair, eyes narrowing at Aleksei. The corner of Aleksei’s mouth twitches upward as he savors his sashimi, his eyes half-closed in appreciation. A drop of soy sauce clings to his bottom lip, and he dabs it away with his napkin, taking his time.

His grin remains steady, even as I grit my teeth, the slow chew of his food almost mocking. He knows I’m about two seconds away from walking out.

“Leonid,” he says smoothly, “You’re well past the age for marriage. It’s time to start considering alliances that benefit both business and… personal life.”

I glance at Kensington, who’s now beaming like a sweaty fool. The two women exchange glances, and I catch the older one giving me a once-over, her eyes trailing from my face down to my chest, lingering before they drop lower, not even bothering to hide it.

I’m seeing red.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I growl, my voice low. My eyes flick back to Aleksei. “This is why I’m here? To be paraded around like some prize bull for sale?”

Aleksei’s smirk tightens. “You’re past thirty-five, Leonid. It’s time to settle down with someone… influential.” He motions to the older woman like she’s the prize he’s dangling in front of me.

Kensington clears his throat, leaning forward, trying to salvage whatever this disaster is. “My daughters are well-versed in business, Mr. Kuznetsov,” he says, his voice still too eager. “They’ve traveled extensively—Europe, Asia… You’ll find their connections to be quite… valuable.”

I don’t even look at the women. “Valuable?” I shoot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is that what you call this?”

The older one—too much plastic in her face to even read a proper reaction—tries to lean in, flashing that overstuffed smile again. “I’ve always admired men of power,” she says, her voice thick with fake charm. “Daddy’s told me all about you.”

I raise an eyebrow, my patience gone. “Did Daddy tell you that this isn’t a fucking dating service?”

Aleksei, sensing my growing temper, shifts in his seat. “This is an opportunity, Leonid. Kensington’s connections—his daughters—are exactly the kind of alliance you need to strengthen our position.”

My fist tightens around the edge of the table, and for a second, I think about flipping it and walking out. But no. I sit, glaring at Aleksei; the only thing holding me back is the years he served under my father.

“If I wanted an alliance,” I say slowly, “I wouldn’t need… this.” I glance at the women, making sure they understand that whatever this is, it’s a joke.

The younger one blushes, her eyes flicking between me and her father. The older one just smiles wider, completely unfazed, as if she still thinks she’s winning me over.

I turn back to Aleksei, cold. “This better be the last time you pull this shit, Aleksei. Or next time, I’ll show you just how little patience I have left.”

Aleksei’s grin falters, but he nods, leaning back as if he’s won something.

Kensington shifts again, his nervous smile returning. “Mr. Kuznetsov, I assure you—this arrangement would bring you more than you can imagine.”

I lean forward, meeting his eyes with a glare. “I don’t need anything you’re selling, Kensington.”

His face pales, the sweat building up again. But the older daughter, still thinking she’s got a shot, leans closer, her breath catching slightly as her eyes roam over me again.

Aleksei’s eyes flicker between us like he’s waiting for me to fold.

But I won’t. I’ve already made up my mind.

All I can think about now is Clara Caldwell.