In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(42)

“I—”

Lauren’s phone rang, cutting him off. She apologized, hurrying back to his bedroom to grab her phone. While she was in there, Mishca sent a quick text to Vlad, telling him where to meet.

It was only minutes later that she came back out, looking a bit green “That’s was my mom.”

“Oh? She’s doing well?”

She turned fearful eyes to him.

“Not good?”

“She wants to meet you when she comes up here for Thanksgiving.”

He coughed, resting his elbow on the table as he smiled. “And you’re nervous?”

She scowled, but didn’t deny it. “Not nervous at all, just…you do want to meet her?”

“Of course. She’s your mother.”

“But—”

“The question is, do you want me to meet your mother?”

Lauren smiled and when she did, her entire face lit up. When she did, it felt like his heart constricted. Seeing her like this, in his clothes, smiling at him with such happiness, he wanted to put that smile on her face everyday.

“Of course I do.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

***

Mishca found Mikhail in his usual hunting grounds, a secluded spot in the back of the restaurant where he could neither be overheard or interrupted. A napkin was tucked into the collar of his expensive shirt as he cut into the perfectly cooked steak in front of him.

Despite his rather pleasant demeanor, with only a glance at him, one would know that there was something different about the man, something that made him stand out in a crowd despite his age. It might have been the number of tattoos that covered his body, though most were tastefully done, making it appear that he only had a few when good portion of his body was covered, like the ones that were inked on his fingers like permanent rings.

If not for the fact that on the side of the restaurant they were seated on, it was empty, Mishca might have been inclined to believe that this was not a business meeting.

He slid into the seat opposite him, ordering a drink from the waiter hovering anxiously nearby. Mikhail didn’t bother trying to make small talk, choosing instead to wait for Mikhail to start, not sure where this impromptu meeting was headed.

“Did she get home safely?” Mikhail asked after swallowing another bite of steak, delicately wiping the corners of his mouth with the end of his napkin.

Mishca arched a brow, tamping down his irritation as he turned a coin over between his fingers. “Of course. Was I followed there as well?”

Waving his fork, Mikhail shook his head. Mikhail was an animated talker, always using his hands as he spoke, emphasizing his words. The waiter returned with Mishca’s drink, setting it on the table before scurrying away.

“I do what any father would to protect his son.”

Rolling his eyes, Mishca switched to Russian to ask, “Or a Pakhan monitoring his Captain, no?”

He shrugged. “Ah, just so.”

“There is nothing to protect me from. I have never made you doubt me before, why now?”

Mikhail took another bite, cool gray eyes drilling into Mishca. “Women can be a blessing and a curse in our world, Mishca. What do you know of this girl?”

“If you’re asking if I checked her out, the answer is no. She’s from a small town in Michigan. No extended family, but I doubt you brought me here for that. What did you find?”

Mikhail smiled, but didn’t comment as he signaled for one of his men to hand over a large envelope. Using a butter knife, Mishca unsealed it, dumping its contents onto the plate in front of him.

There were photos, hundreds of them—most of Lauren—and a few scanned pages, one of a news article that was at least a decade old, and a number of documents. Ignoring the pictures for the moment, he read the article.

“Her father was murdered?” He asked feeling a pang in his chest for what she must have gone through. Losing a parent was hard, having them killed was brutal.

No one’s past was pretty—even his was ugly when he thought about it—but he didn’t see that in Lauren. Painful memories like this ate at you slowly, and sometimes the person you became was merely a shell of the person you used to be, but Lauren seemed rather well adjusted.

It normally wouldn’t have bothered him, but as he looked over Lauren’s birth certificate, school history, and practically everything there was to know about her, it all felt…wrong.

Dropping them, he moved on to the pictures. There were a few where he and Lauren were together, laughing, unaware that someone was shooting them, but majority of them were just of her, walking to class, eating, even a few at her apartment, shot through the window of her bedroom.

“Yes,” Mikhail said answering his question. “But do you recognize the father’s name?”

Mishca picked back up the article, searching for a name and nearly cursed when he read it. “Doc was her father?”

Mikhail nodded once.

It was nearly twenty years ago when Mishca met Dr. Cameron Thompson for the first time. He had been his and Alex’s private physician. He had never made the connection between Lauren and the doc, mainly because had never known where the man was from, or any other aspect of his life. Whenever they called, the doctor just showed up, no questions asked.

“Does she know of us?” Mikhail asked.