Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(71)

Then Belov leans forward.

His eyes are locked on mine. I feel like we’re the only people in the room, in the worst possible way. He tips his head to the side and his mouth curves into a smile.

“Besides,” he adds, “I would never harm my future wife.”





29





LEO





If I lunge across the table and strangle Belov, Ariel and Willow will be caught in the middle of the ensuing fight. That tiny, inconvenient little fact—that I’d have to risk both of their lives to kill this motherfucker—is the only thing that keeps me seated.

Lucky him.

“You’ve really gone soft in the head since I brought down your buildings, haven’t you?” I snarl instead through clenched teeth.

“If you think I’ve forgotten dear Viktoria here is already married, you’re wrong.” His smile gets wider. “If memory serves, you attempted the same daring move not so long ago,” he says, his gaze flickering to Willow. “Weren’t you married to another man when Leo arrived on the scene?”

Willow is sitting stiffly. She’s not looking at me. I wonder if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

“Let’s say I divorce Leo and marry you,” Willow says abruptly. “What’s to stop you from killing my son the moment I’m legally bound to you?”

Belov’s eyes spark with admiration. “You’re smart.” He looks back at Ariel, the first time he’s acknowledged her presence. “See, Brit?” he asks. “She’s not stupid at all. Not that I ever really doubted. I knew the daughter of Anya Mikhailov would be one to watch.”

“Forget my mother,” Willow interjects. “I was one to watch regardless.”

Willow is sparring with one of the most dangerous men in the underworld. If I wasn’t vibrating with rage, I’d be proud.

She doesn’t even give him the chance to respond before doubling down. “Answer the question, Belov.”

Spartak raises a brow. He doesn’t like being talked down to. And he certainly doesn’t like the proud, easy way in which Willow barks out orders.

“Your son will never have to fear me,” Belov says. “Because I plan on raising him as my own.”

I do a double-take. “Excuse me?”

“I know it might be hard for you to believe, but I’m not the brute savage you seem to think I am. I’m perfectly happy to raise your son as my own.”

He says it boldly, confidently, like I’m the naive asshole. But I see the way he shifts ever so slightly in his chair—he’s hiding something. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what it is.

“You’re impotent.”

Belov flinches. And it’s all I need to see to know it’s true.

“I think that’s nature’s way of telling you that your bloodline needs to end, Belov,” I growl.

“Right now, your bloodline is in my possession,” Belov snarls, finally dropping his nauseating smile. “I’d be careful if I were you, Solovev.”

“You already stole Semyon’s Bratva. Now you want to steal his grandchildren, as well?” I ask. “And how do you plan to make more heirs? Pimping out your wife because you can’t get her pregnant doesn’t exactly speak to strength.”

Belov is shaking. Apparently, I’ve touched a nerve. He’s revealed a vulnerability, showing me his naked neck.

And I’m trained to rip out his throat.

Perhaps he’s not so lucky after all.

“The Mikhailov Bratva must go on,” he says haughtily. “I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that happens. That is strength.”

“You could have picked anyone,” Willow says. “You don’t need my son. Why choose him?”

“Because he’s having trouble keeping his men in line,” I answer before Spartak can. “Isn’t that right, Belov? Are the Mikhailov loyalists giving you a hard time? You did let two of their buildings get turned into smoking craters. Maybe they’ve decided they don’t want to be led by an incompetent outsider who can’t even get his own fucking sperm to follow orders.”

He grinds his teeth. “I have control over my men.”

“Really?” I ask. “Because from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t even seem like you have control of yourself.”

“Look down on me all you want,” he snaps. “I wasn’t born with a silver goddamn spoon in my mouth. I had to claw my way up. Everything I have is because I earned it, won it, or ripped it away from people who weren’t strong enough to hold it.”

“You think you’re being rejected because of where you came from?” I ask. “Because of your name?”

“I know that’s why. There’s nothing else it could be.”

“Even all this time, you have no idea,” I shake my head. “It is your refusal to respect our ways. You’ve spent your whole life in the Bratva, and yet you still don’t understand any of it.”

“Is this where you talk about your brother’s death?” He rolls his eyes, and I want to gouge them out.

“A gentleman’s tête-à-tête means something in the underworld, Belov. Going against those rules changed what people saw when they looked at you.”