36. Mikhail

Anatoly and Raoul are loading the car when I step into the garage wearing a suit. "You're a little overdressed for a meeting with your realtor." Anatoly eyes me warily, already suspecting what I'm going to say.

The plan was for me to be seen at coffee with my realtor. I"d be spotted signing documents for the new location of Cerberus Industries while Anatoly and Raoul discretely attended the wedding of Christos's niece. If the wedding turned violent, I'd be across town. Plausible deniability and all that.

After this morning's debacle, though, I have too much energy to sit down for coffee. I want to get my hands dirty.

"I signed the contract digitally and my afternoon freed up." I throw my bag into the trunk. "I'm going to the wedding."

I don't need to see my brothers to know they're looking at each other, silently trying to decide what to do. Who should speak up first.

I whip around, arms crossed. "Say whatever the fuck it is you're going to say so we can go. It would be rude of us to walk in late."

Raoul lifts his chin and keeps his mouth stubbornly closed, leaving Anatoly as the unwilling sacrifice. He rolls his eyes and slams the trunk closed.

"Okay. Well, first, this wasn't the plan, Mikhail."

"Plans change."

"Not at the last minute. Not when you're the one who made the plan to begin with," he points out.

"The plan was to secure a new location for Cerberus Industries so we have somewhere to funnel the shit ton of money we're going to make when the shipment of weapons arrives." I shrug. "I've done that. It's being taken care of as we speak. I'm not changing the plan; I've just finished my part of it. Now, I'm helping you with yours."

Anatoly almost manages to smother a snort at the suggestion that he and Raoul could use my help. "You're recognizable. If anyone sees you, they'll know immediately that we're the ones who?—"

"That we're the kind of people who don't make idle threats. They'll know not to fuck with us."

Anatoly growls. "Something is wrong and I don't want to go into a fight with you if your head isn't in the right place."

For a single second, my head is in a bedroom upstairs. Is Viviana still in the bathroom? Is she looking for me? Do I want her to find me?

But I shake it off and meet his eyes. "All of me is right here. I started this mess by refusing to marry Helen, so I'm going to take care of it. All that matters is taking out Christos and Agostino. All that matters is the Bratva."

Anatoly arches a brow. He wants to argue, but he has enough sense to know it won't do him any good. Whether I go to that wedding with the two of them or by myself, I'm going.

And he knows it.

Anatoly pulls the keys out of his pocket. "Do I still get to drive, at least?"

"Be my guest. So long as you can drive and walk me through the plan again." I slip into the passenger seat and pull the door closed. "I want to make sure you know what the fuck you're doing."

Anatoly curses under his breath. "And yet everyone calls me the bastard."

I let him complain. The only thing that might turn this day around is watching Christos Drakos choke on his own blood. No amount of griping from Anatoly is going to stop me from making that happen.

The reception is in shambles.

At least, it sounds like it's in shambles. I don't know much about weddings, but that much screaming can't be celebratory.

"Hurry up," Anatoly hisses, poking his head through the swinging door into the kitchen. "We have to go."

The three of us watched the ceremony from the rooftop across the street, but Christos never showed. He wasn't in the wave of arriving guests or in the processional after the ceremony. His niece and her new husband, the son that will tie the Drakos family to an influential District Attorney, left through a tunnel of bubbles.

But Uncle Christos was nowhere to be seen.

Anatoly and Raoul were ready to scrap the plan and go home. "We'll regroup," Anatoly said. "Figure out where to hit Agostino and try that."

The thought of going home to sit and wait and sit some more made my skin crawl. Slowing down means stopping long enough to assess the steaming garbage heap that my life has become.

I'd rather turn someone else's life into a steaming garbage heap.

Which is why I now find myself behind a stainless steel shelf of pots and pans with my hand around Damon Drakos's throat. The mother of the bride is leaning against an industrial-sized refrigerator, softly weeping as she gawks down at her husband thrashing in my grasp.

"I'll be done as soon as Damon tells me where his brother is," I growl back at Anatoly.

Damon coughs, spraying blood down his chin. "I don't know where he is. I don't?—"

I drive my knee into his stomach—into the bullet wound I put there sixty seconds ago. About the same time the screaming on the other side of the door started.

"You know something. Otherwise, you'd wonder why your dear brother isn't here today. Why would Christos arrange this marriage and not come to bless it? Huh?"

"We haven't seen him!" his wife sobs. "It's been weeks. We don't have anything to do with him or his business!"

"Except pimping your daughter out to his allies." I fix her with a hard glare. "Don't waste my time with lies."

Her thin lips seal closed. Good. Someone needs to survive to pass along my message.

"You have nothing to say?" I ask Damon, giving him one final chance.

He meets my eyes, summoning the last of his dignity as he silently awaits his death.

I nod and turn back to his wife. "When you do see him, tell Christos that this ends now. Tell him that he leaves my family alone or he'll end up like his brother."

Before the woman can even wonder what I mean, I press my gun to Damon's neck and pull the trigger.

When I push the front door of the mansion open, Viviana is in the entryway.

She opens her mouth, ready to launch into an explanation or an apology or whatever the fuck it is she might want to say to me. Then she sees Raoul and Anatoly shuffling in behind me and her mouth slams shut.

There's blood crusted under my fingernails. Probably dotting the collar of my shirt, too. But I don't care. Let her see it. I'm tired of pretending I'm above this.

She may want to keep secrets, but I don't. Not anymore.

The time we spent at the cabin was a fantasy. It might as well have been a dream. This is who I'll always be at the end of the day: the man coming home late with blood on his hands.

But if Viviana sees it, she doesn't say anything. She steps closer, her voice soft. "Can we talk?"

"We'll talk when I'm ready." I turn towards the stairs, but she slides in front of me.

Up close, I can tell she's been crying. There are tear tracks down her cheeks. Her eyes are bloodshot. "Mikhail. Please."

I can feel Anatoly watching me. Even Raoul is tuned into the drama, no matter how much he'll deny it later. If they had any doubts about why I changed the plan and went homicidal on Christos's brother, they don't anymore.

Trouble in fucking paradise.

"If you knew where I'd just been, you'd know I'm in no mood to talk," I grit out. "For your sake, we'll do this later."

Viviana looks up at me and I expect fear. I expect her to cower the way Damon's wife did when she watched me kill her husband. Part of me even wants it.

But Viviana just nods and stands to the side.

I navigate around her and walk into my office. Not even a minute later, Anatoly opens the door. "I'd knock, but I'd hate for you to think I was your wife," he says, pushing the door closed behind him. "I've seen how you treat her."

I pour myself a drink and sit down in my chair. "Well, I'd offer you a drink, but I'd hate for you to think I want you to stay."

He chuckles humorlessly. "Killing Damon didn't have the lasting relief you were hoping for, eh? Turns out wanton murder might not be the solution to troubles at home?"

"Get out, Anatoly."

"I thought your days of taking out your frustrations on a punching bag were over. I guess I was wrong," he says. "You just found a living, breathing punching bag instead."

The fact that I'm not sure if he's talking about Damon, Christos, or Viviana is damning in a way that pisses me off.

"Leave. I'm not in the mood."

"I know you're not." He drops down onto the sofa, making himself right at home. "I don't care."

We sit in silence for a few minutes. If he's waiting for me to be the first to break and start this confessional, he'll be waiting forever. I have nothing to say.

Finally, he sighs. "What happened back there?"

"Christos was tipped off, obviously. He bailed on the wedding because he was scared of facing me. And the asshole didn't even have the decency to warn his brother that I was coming."

"I'm not talking about the wedding. I know what happened there." Anatoly's jaw flexes. His hands rub together and I get the sense he has some frustrations to work through himself. "You charged into a building full of public figures and Drakos soldiers so you could kill Christos's brother for the low, low price of, let's see… zero new information. If Raoul and I hadn't followed you inside, the guards in the lobby would have killed you."

"Good thing I knew you were going to follow me inside."

That's a lie. I told them to wait outside and I didn't see the guards waiting around the pillar. They would have cornered me from behind and I wouldn't be here right now.

Anatoly shakes his head, and I know he doesn't buy my bullshit. "I want to know what's going on in your own house. With you and Viviana."

I shoot him a warning look, but Anatoly doesn't know when to quit. He gets that from our father. He stares back at me, anticipating answers I don't have.

"It's called a relationship. Marriage. You should try it."

His face darkens. He did try it. For the first time in his life, Anatoly was a one-woman kind of man.

Then he found that one woman dead in our garage.

I'm being an asshole bringing it up, but I told him to leave. Twice. He has only himself to blame…

Right?

"I've seen you and Viviana together long enough to know what your relationship looks like. Usually, I can't be in the same room with you without getting nauseous. But it was icy back there. She looked upset."

"Probably because she is." I shrug. "So am I. It happens."

He groans. "Care to elaborate? It's hard to be your confidant when you don't tell me anything."

"You aren't my confidant."

"You're right. I'm your brother. It's an even deeper bond."

I snort. "Ask Trofim how he feels about that. The next time I see him, I plan to kill him. What kind of bond is that?"

"Don't lump me in with Trofim," he snaps. "Don't sit here and lash out at me because you fucked things up."

My molars grind together. "I didn't fuck anything up."

"You're pissed with Viviana about something, so you threw yourself into a fight with the Greeks and killed someone we had no plans to kill. Now, you're walling yourself off in your room. I'd say you fucked several things up, man."

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Anatoly." I point to the door. "Leave me alone."

"Once again, no. I left you alone before. Maybe you don't remember because you were drinking yourself into the ground, but we've done this whole shebang already." He circles a finger at me and the glass I'm crushing in my fist. "You drank and worked out until you couldn't stand. I understand what you were going through, so I let you grieve. But we don't have time for this now."

"I've managed this Bratva long enough on my own. I can manage myself."

"You're being reckless," he spits, "and I deserve to understand why."

"You don't deserve a fucking thing from me!" I roar. The anger hits me sideways, rising up from the place it's been hiding all day. Simmering. Waiting. I fling my glass against the wall and jab a finger at my brother. "My personal life isn't your fucking business. If you aren't here to talk about work, then get the hell out of my office."

Anatoly sits tall, shock flickering across his face as he takes in my shaking finger and the alcohol dripping down the wall.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and I wait for some quippy remark. Some perfect Anatoly-ism that will cut through the tension—through the dark cloud that has been this shitty day.

Instead, for the first and probably the last time in his life, he does exactly what I ask.

He simply leaves.