2. Chapter 2

2

Dimitri

" S uka , what the actual fuck am I even doing here?" I grunt as a scantily clad waitress with more plastic in her tits than in my fucking credit card leads us to the VIP room.

The place reeks of cheap perfume, stale cigarettes, and a fucking waste of time.

It's a far cry from the high-end establishments we own, but tonight, I'm playing the role of babysitter to this sweaty, hairy pig who calls himself a politician.

Pizda , and I fucking hate politicians.

Erik's stupid voice rings in my ears. "It's only gonna be a few hours, brat ."

Fuck you, Erik.

I glare at the fat pig, imagining grabbing his fancy tie and yanking it till he chokes on his own shit.

A few hours of this crap might as well be a lifetime in hell.

He insists there are better dancers here. I scoff, the sound ripping from my throat like a fucking chainsaw.

I sweep my eyes across the room, taking in the sad sacks of shit stumbling around us—these khuy couldn't dance their way out of a wet paper bag if their lives depended on it.

Fuck me, this place is a joke.

Red velvet couches so worn they're practically begging for mercy, a mirrored ceiling that's seen more ass than a proctologist, and three sad-ass poles just waiting for some desperate suka to grind on ‘em for pocket change.

It's luxury, alright—if you're a blind rat with no fucking standards. I can almost smell the desperation and cheap booze.

Blyat, what a shithole.

I sink onto a couch, the worn upholstery creaking under my weight.

I let out a low growl.

My knuckles are still sore from the fight, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. Usually, after a match, I'd find some willing pussy to take the edge off, but tonight, I'm stuck playing nice with this asshole.

"Dimitri, my boy," the pig says, his fat fingers wrapped around a glass of scotch, "I must say, I'm impressed with how you've been handling things since Luka stepped down. The Ivankov Bratva is lucky to have you."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Pizda! Lucky, right.

More like saddled with the responsibility of keeping this ship afloat while Luka plays house in Hawaii.

Don't get me wrong, I'd take a bullet for the man, but sometimes I wonder if he's gone soft.

No, it's all this damn "love" garbage screwing everything up.

"Just doing my job," I say, my voice flat. "Luka's still the Pakhan . I'm just holding down the fort until he decides to come back."

The pig laughs, a grating sound that sets my teeth on edge. "Of course, of course. Family first, eh? That's the Russian way."

I grunt in response, my eyes scanning the room. The waitress returns with a bottle of vodka and two more glasses. She bends over to place them on the table, her barely-there top leaving little to the imagination. The pig leers at her, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth.

I look away, disgusted. This whole scene… it's not my style.

I'm not cut out for this schmoozing and small talk. That's Erik's department. But with him out of town on business, I'm left to play the diplomat.

The waitress bends further down, leaning closer, her ample cleavage nearly spilling out of her tiny top. She places a cocktail napkin in front of me, her red lacquered nails grazing my hand. "Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen," she purrs, her eyes locked on mine.

I meet her gaze, unflinching.

She's pretty enough, in a generic, surgically enhanced sort of way. But it's the way she's eye-fucking me that catches my attention. Her eyes drift down to my crotch, her tongue darting out to wet her painted lips. It's an invitation, one I'm sure she extends to every halfway decent-looking guy who comes through here.

I ignore the suka , reaching for the bottle of Beluga Noble vodka on the table.

Pouring a hefty shot, I down that shit in one go, savoring the burn as it scorches my throat and sets my chest on fire.

A harsh sound escapes me.

The waitress fakes a giggle, seeking my attention; she hovers around me, hip cocked like she's offering up her cunt on a silver platter.

But fuck that, I'm not biting.

I've got bigger things on my mind than a quick fuck in the back room with a girl whose name I won't remember in the morning.

She pouts, those dick-sucking lips glistening. With a shrug, she sways off, ass bouncing like it's got a mind of its own. The pig's eyes are glued to it, practically drooling.

"Now that's what I call service," he grunts, choking down his scotch.

Politics can suck my dick. Poshol na khuy , I fucking despise this shit.

Slamming back another shot of vodka, the harsh burn fuels the rage festering in my chest.

Yob tvoyu mat, Erik, you cocksucking piece of shit. Leaving me to wade through this cesspool while you're out there, probably balls-deep in some trophy cunt. I can see your smug face now, laughing it up while I'm stuck in this hellhole.

And here I am, playing nice with this sweaty sack of lard. All for some fucking connections to keep the Bratva's wheels greased. Politics can suck my dick.

Poshol na khuy , I'm a soldier, not some ass-kissing diplomat. But here I am, nodding along like this mudak's every word is fucking gospel.

It's all for the Bratva. For the empire Luka's old man built from scratch. He croaks, hands it all to Luka on a silver platter.

And what does that durak do? Falls in love. What a crock of shit.

My jaw clenches thinking about that suka . Brother from another mother since we were punk kids. Now? I barely recognize the soft bastard.

I remember when he dropped the bomb, telling us he was bowing out, leaving me and Erik to run the show while he played house in fucking Hawaii.

I wanted to knock some sense into him, but one look in those eyes and I knew. No changing his mind.

But what can I do? He's the Pakhan . His word is law, even if I think he's gone soft in the head.

Can't let it all go to shit now.

I ball my fist, squeezing till my knuckles crack. Blinking hard, I glance at the pig.

He's practically drowning in his own drool when the waitress shifts her focus to him. She places her hand on his shoulder, her fake laugh echoing through the bar at his lame-ass joke. The disgusting fuck doesn't even notice her forced smile, too busy ogling her cleavage. Her hand lingers on his shoulder, squeezing lightly as she leans in.

"You're so funny," she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

He eats it up, the idiot, his eyes glazed and mouth hanging open. Watching the whole thing makes my skin crawl. The pig thinks he's charming her, but she's just playing the game.

"Don't be a pussy wipe, D." I hear Erik's voice, and I bite my jaw. "Just a few fucking hours of pretending is not as hard as you think."

Mudak has no idea how hard it is to fucking pretend I'm someone I'm not.

But I'll take one for the Bratva. So, I'll sit here, I'll drink this piss-poor excuse for vodka, and I'll nod along like this fucker's the most interesting man in the world.

All for the fucking Bratva.