60. Chapter 60

60

Leonid

T he mirror catches my reflection as I enter Vic's private meeting room, and for a second, I think I'm seeing double. But no - the neatly tied bleached-white hair in the reflection belongs to my brother, who's sprawled in one of Vic's insanely expensive leather chairs like he owns the place.

Blyat . Typical.

The room reeks of Vic’s flair for wealth—gold-leaf ceilings, intricate tapestries, and a chandelier that could bankrupt most people just by being near it. A marble fireplace anchors one wall, its pristine white surface glowing faintly from dying embers. The windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling, casting harsh light that fails to soften the tension crackling in the air.

My eyes don’t leave Ludis. Behind him, his shadow of a bodyguard looms in silence, his massive frame out of place against Vic’s refined surroundings. The man’s shoulders seem too broad for his tailored suit, and his hands flex subtly, like a predator waiting for the signal to strike.

By the door, Maksim leans casually against the frame, his arms crossed and his hand grazing his holster. He’s loose but ready, his sharp eyes flicking between Ludis and me. Across the room, Vic sits behind his oversized mahogany desk.

He seems, calm. But I know, he is calculating, likely running odds on whether this room will still have a roof by the end of the meeting.

"No smoking in my office," Vic says mildly, his manicured fingers drumming once against the mahogany. His blue-gray eyes track the smoke curling around the gilded ceiling. "My artisans don't appreciate having to restore restore three-hundred-year-oldgold leaf because someone can't step outside for their nicotine fix."

Ludis's left eye twitches, a muscle in his jaw flexing before his lips curl to a smirk. He grins around his cigarette and takes one last drag before stubbing it out in what looks like an antique crystal ashtray. His eyes sweep the room—taking in the gold-leaf moldings, the priceless artwork, the subtle displays of old-world wealth—before landing on Vic with newfound interest.

Ludis shifts in his seat, one boot coming to rest on the edge of the table, the polished surface catching the scuffed sole. He gestures lazily toward Vic with two fingers. "So this is the famous Victor Montclair. I was starting to think my brother had made you up. Another one of his... personal assets he doesn’t like to share."

"Unfortunately for everyone," I say, lowering myself into the chair across from Ludis, "this isn't about business."

The Glock at my back presses against the leather—a cold reminder that some conversations end in blood. I notice how his jacket pulls slightly on the left side. Armed, then. Of course he is.

Vic clears his throat, those calculating eyes missing nothing. “It’s nice to meet you, Ludis. I’ve heard,” he adjusts his watch, a tell I’ve learned to read like a warning bell, “quite a lot about you.”

Ludis laughs, but his fingers tighten slightly around the crystal tumbler. “All terrible things, I hope. Though I have to wonder,” his eyes shoot toward mine, “what’s so important it couldn’t wait for our usual death threats over the phone.”

"So, let's cut to it," I say, ignoring how my stomach churns at the mention of phone calls. Three days of revelations sit like acid in my throat. "What do you know about Aleksei Sokolov?"

Ludis barks out a laugh. "Your father's loyal dog? Please tell me this isn't about territory disputes. I thought we'd moved past—"

" Our father's loyal dog," I correct him. "The same one who arranged our mother's murder."

The bear-like man behind Ludis shifts his weight, but my brother's face remains a mask of cold amusement. Only the slight pause before he raises his glass betrays any reaction.

"Now that's creative." He takes a deliberate sip. "Did you come up with that before or after you found your instant family?"

My knuckles go white against the armrest. Vic's tablet sits between us on the mahogany desk like a loaded weapon.

"Play it," I tell Vic, not taking my eyes off my brother. Part of me wants to look away—to not watch his face when he hears our mother's death discussed like a business transaction. But I force myself to watch, to memorize every micro-expression that crosses his features.

"If this is another one of your—" Ludis starts, his words dying in his throat as Aleksei’s voice booms through the room, cutting off his bullshit excuses.

"Six-month-old twins," the recording plays. "Should've been an easy job."

The crystal tumbler in Ludis's hand trembles for a fraction of a second before his fingers tighten, knuckles bleaching white against the cut glass. His jaw works silently, that perpetual smirk slipping just enough to show something raw underneath.

"Who would've thought Sofiya had it in her?" Aleksei's recorded voice continues. "Diving in front of those bullets, using her own body as a shield."

Ludis's throat bobs. Once. Twice. The bear-like man takes a half-step forward, but freezes when Ludis raises his hand.

"Both brats survived because of that stupid suka ." Stephan's laughter crackles through the speaker, and I watch my brother's face shift from disbelief to something darker, more dangerous.

The crystal tumbler shakes in Ludis's grip before he slams it down. He leans back, breathing hard through his nose. Each movement calculated, like he's solving a math problem that ends in bloodshed.

The silver lighter clicks. He lights another cigarette while Aleksei's voice fills the room with its poison. Vic doesn't bitch about his precious ceiling this time. His jaw works silently as he watches my brother, his fingers frozen on that fancy fucking watch.

Ludis's eyes close as smoke escapes his lips. Another voice joins in—Stephan's smooth bullshit mixing with Aleksei's gravel.

My gut twists hearing it again. The way they laugh about our mother's death like they're discussing the fucking weather. Like she didn't die choking on her own blood, protecting the sons they tried to kill. I want to put bullets in both of them. Make them count every second she suffered.

“Love makes men weak. Pizdets .” Aleksei’s recorded laughter scrapes through the room. “The fool wouldn’t listen to me after he became a father. Blyat . He turned into a pussy. But convincing him to separate the twins? ‘For their safety,’ I said. The grieving father, so desperate to protect his remaining family, he’d do anything—even tear it apart.”

The recording clicks off. In the silence, Ludis takes another drag, slow and deliberate like a man choosing his last meal. The bear behind him flexes his fingers, reading the room's tension like a weather report before a storm.

"Cute story." Ludis's voice comes out hoarse. He crushes the half-smoked cigarette next to its dead brother. "Really tugs at the heartstrings. Must've taken forever to edit."

Blyat. Of course the mudak doesn’t believe it. I lean forward, my palms resting on my thighs. “You think I’d make this shit up?”

“I think—” He mirrors my position, close enough that I can smell the bourbon and smoke on his breath, “—that you’re running out of ways to keep me from what’s mine. First the brotherhood bullshit, now this fairytale about Mama being some kind of hero?”

"It's not a fucking fairytale." My fingers itch for my Glock. "These men killed our mother. Used our father's grief to tear us apart. And now—"

"Now what?" His laugh comes out sharp as broken glass. "We hug it out? Cry about our sad childhood? Maybe start a support group for abandoned little boys?"

The bear shifts again. Maksim's hand drifts toward his holster.

"They're planning to kill my son." The words taste like battery acid. "Your nephew."

Something flickers across Ludis's face—too fast to read. He reaches for the crystal decanter, pouring another two fingers of bourbon like we're discussing the weather. "Not my problem."

Red bleeds into the edges of my vision. Three days of watching Elijah build Jenga towers flash through my mind. Three days of seeing our mother's eyes in his face.

" Blayt. You stupid fuck." I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving. "They killed our mother. They're coming for my family. And you're sitting there like some brain-dead gopnik pretending none of it matters?"

His glass hits the desk with a crack. “What matters,” he stands, “is that you’re losing your grip. On the Bratva. On reality. First, you find some whore and her bastard—”

The Glock appears in my hand the same moment his weapon clears leather. Behind us, the bear's massive frame tenses like a spring about to snap.

“Don’t,” I snap; I tighten my grip on the gun. “Don’t fucking test me.”

Ludis's eyes glitter with something wild. "Truth hurts, brat?"

The air cracks with safeties clicking off. Vic rises from his desk, but neither of us gives a fuck.

"The truth?" I spit out a laugh that tastes like copper. "You want truth, suka ? Every time you got your ass kicked in that Siberian shithole? Every time you went hungry?" My finger kisses the trigger. "That was them. Every pizdets second of your pathetic life was their fucking game."

" Blyat ." But his voice breaks on the curse. His gun hand shakes before steadying. "You're just like him. Like our father. Think you can control everything, manipulate everyone—"

"Papa died thinking he saved us." My jaw clenches so hard something cracks.

“Died believing he kept us apart to protect us. And you know what the real fucking joke is?” I lean in, close enough to see the pores in his skin. “Those suki want us to tear each other apart. Been playing us like fucking chess pieces since before we could walk. Because the second one of us kills the other,” I bare my teeth in something that’s not a smile, “they’ll put a bullet in the survivor’s head, just like they tried to do thirty-eight years ago.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "And you care so much about my safety now, brat?"

"I care about—"

A phone cuts through the tension. Not mine. Not Vic's.

Ludis's face drains of color as he yanks out his phone. His eyes scan the screen, and for the first time since I've known this coldhearted suka , I see real fear.

" Yob tvoyu mat ," he whispers. "Nyet, nyet, nyet..."

The bear lurches forward. "Boss—"

"They have Marina." Ludis's voice sounds like he's choking on glass. "Those grizniy suki have my daughter."

My Glock dips. "Your what?"

"They broke into her house in the Garden District. She's only 12, she's—" he is talking to the bear now.

The Glock hits Vic's expensive floor with a clatter. His face twists into something I recognize—the same look I had three days ago when I realized they were coming for Elijah.

"Her mother died in childbirth." His voice breaks. "She's all I—" He swallows. "Marina's all I have."