Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (15)

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

I glance up at him. Bogdan never pries, never second-guesses me. For him to even venture a question is unusual. I nod.

“What was it about her?”

Had the question come from anyone else, I would have refused to answer. But Bogdan is more than just my right hand. He’s my brother. I can tell him the truth. God knows he’s earned it in sweat and blood.

But the truth is I don’t fucking know what it was about Cami that’s stuck like a splinter in my mind.

“She was different,” I say curtly. “That’s all.”

“It’s just that I’ve never known you to fall for a woman that quickly. In fact, I’ve never known you to fall at all.”

I snort derisively. “You get away with a lot because of your last name. You realize that, don’t you?”

He manages a grin. “I do.” The smile slides off his face almost immediately. “But that’s not true for everyone with our last name, is it?”

My tendons feel taut. My muscles throb with the urge to jump into action. Maxim has been lying low for days now. With good reason—because if I get my hands on him, I’m going to make him suffer.

“I saw him at the restaurant, Bogdan,” I growl. “It was definitely him.”

“I know. I believe you.”

“He shares our name. He shares our blood. And that gave him a certain level of immunity. At least, it used to. I’ve been patient with him. Lenient. But he’s taken things too far now.”

“He can’t have known she meant something to you.”

“On the contrary, I think he took her purely because he thought she meant something to me.”

Bogdan frowns. “Why would he do that?”

“To make a statement,” I say. “To let me know that he’s coming for what he believes is his birthright. Yakov was the first son; he was the Krestnyy Otets. And if Maxim’s father had lived, Maxim would have taken over the Vorobev Bratva. Instead, it’s mine.”

Bogdan sighs. “You don’t need to recount family history to me, brother. I know it as well as you do. I just never thought he’d have the balls to actually move against you.”

“We need to weed out his loyalists,” I say firmly. “If I know Maxim, he’ll have made sure to plant a few rats in the ranks before he split out on his own.”

Bogdan looks offended. “I’ve carried out extensive checks on all the men. No one who reports to me is wavering.”

I glance at my little brother. He’s young, yes. But I was twice as ruthless and three times as shrewd by the time I was his age.

Then again, I knew I was going to inherit. Bogdan has never had to live under that kind of pressure. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be molded by it. Shaped by it.

“What about Oleg?”

Bogdan’s eyes go wide. “Oleg? Come on, Isaak. He’s clean. The check showed nothing.”

“Means nothing,” I say. “The fucker is hiding something.”

“Oleg has been with us for years. Before Maxim came back here, in fact.”

“Immaterial,” I bite back. “He has always been Yakov’s man.

“And when Yakov died, Oleg followed your father, the same as the rest of our men. Isaak, you’re looking for demons where there aren’t any to be found.”

“Every year since Yakov died, Oleg has paid regular visits to Svetlana in her mansion out west,” I point out. “Think, little brother. Sometimes, the people that are capable of betrayal are the ones we’re least likely to suspect. That’s why they can get away with it.”

Bogdan’s eyes dart from side to side. In a lot of ways, he’s just like Mother. Smart, capable, and resilient. But loyalty had been ingrained into us since we could walk and talk. He’s still young enough that he takes for granted that our men are ours in mind, body, and spirit.

He doesn’t know how easy it is to poison a man’s mind.

There’s a sharp rap on the door, but before I can answer, it swings open.

“What the—” I growl, rising to my feet angrily. No one walks into my personal space without my permission first.

But my words die on my lips the moment I see Vlad.

He’s pale. The haunted distance in his eyes is more telling than anything he could say right now.

“Is it Father?” I ask.

Vlad nods.

Bogdan and I rush through the door immediately.

Our father’s rooms are located on the second floor, facing the gardens. I burst through the door first, with Bogdan hot on my heels.

The details are the same as they’ve always been. High, arched ceilings. Huge windows with a sprawling view of the city. Gilded portraits of previous Bratva dons lining the walls with dour expressions.

But the middle of the scene is painfully raw and new.

Our mother is sitting on the edge of his bed, her face turned away from us. Her shoulders are hunched, her hands knotted together as though she’s already in mourning.

And behind her is…

“Father,” I say grimly.

My mother gets off the bed and steps back so the two of us can flank our father. He’s lying propped up on a mountain of pillows. For the first time I can remember, he looks small. Not the grizzled warrior who’s led the Bratva for decades. But a weak old man, fighting a battle he cannot win.