I was almost glad to lay my father in the ground. I grew tired of his ceaseless complaints.
He brought us to the edge of ruin, then bemoaned the measures necessary to haul us back again.
The bonds of family can be chains weighing you down.
My father wanted the love of his men. It made him weak.
I’m not interested in love—I’m interested in achievement. I want the whole of St. Petersburg under my control.
I will admit, the alliance with Marko Moroz has come at a cost. It’s a deal with the devil, and the devil always takes his due.
I knew from the beginning he would not be an obedient lieutenant. We agreed to work as partners, neither of us in authority over the other. I take control of St. Petersburg, and he takes a hefty portion of the profits, so that when he returns to Kyiv, he’ll be flush with cash for his own takeover.
I’m beginning to think it’s time for him to go.
The more I learn of Marko, the more I see that he is a coin with two sides. A coin that can be flipped by the slightest breath of air.
His warmth and humor are a real part of his personality. Equally real is the demon that lives behind his eyes. Sometimes the demon sleeps . . . and sometimes it wakes.
My methods are brutal, but they are never emotional. I do only what is necessary to secure my business, nothing more.
Marko behaves as if everyone in this world has personally offended him. His punishments are out of proportion—unpredictable and cruel in a way that will certainly come back to haunt us.
I rein him in when I can, understanding that he is no attack dog on a leash. I don’t have control of him.
I’m certain that’s what Dominik wants to discuss with me tonight—the consequences if we continue to partner with someone who is, at his core, irrational and violent.
I meet my brother in the War Room at precisely the agreed-upon time. Dominik is already waiting, sitting on the edge of the vast meeting table, running his fingertips repetitively over the deeply-carved scrolls in the woodwork, as is his way when he’s stressed or nervous.
We don’t resemble one another, not really. I’m dark and he’s fair, I’m broad where he’s lean. I take after my father’s side of the family, he after our mother’s. Dom is young—not fully grown. Still, he’s thoughtful and focused. He’s never let me down. I trust his judgment. Whatever he tells me tonight, I’ll listen.
“Privetek, brat,” he says. Hello, brother.
“You look serious,” I say.
He smiles slightly. “This from the man whose face is only capable of one expression.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” I say. “I’ve got at least two.”
I’m trying to put him at ease, but Dominik runs his hands through his sandy hair, taking a long inhale.
“Brother,” he says. “We have to end our partnership with Moroz.”
“Time will do that for us,” I say. “He intends to return to Kyiv within the year.”
“He should go now,” Dom says flatly.
I can tell from his pallor and the nervous energy in his hands that this is no idle conversation.
“What happened?” I demand.
“We went to see Isay Chaykovsky. He had our stolen guns in the freezer of his restaurant, just as you said.”
“Yes.” I nod, already knowing this from Efrem.
“He knew he was fucked,” Dom says. “He was crying and begging. I told him he would have to hand over the title on the property, just as you ordered.”
I wait, arms crossed over my chest.
“But then . . .” Dom says, “his daughter came running out of the office. She threw herself on top of her father. She thought we were going to kill him.”
I frown.
“I told her to go back to the office. Moroz stopped her. He tilted up her chin. And said she could save her father right then if she stripped naked and got down on her knees.”
I’m opening my mouth to speak, but Dom holds up his hand to forestall me.
“I told Moroz, that’s not how we do business. I sent her back to the office. I made Chaykovsky sign over the title while the men were loading the guns back in the truck. Then I heard screaming coming from the office.”
I can feel my skin getting hot, anger rising inside me.
“Moroz had her over the desk. I ripped him off of her, but he had already done what he intended.” Dom’s jaw is rigid, his hands clenched. “She was only sixteen.”
“She was ripe,” a deep voice says from the doorway.
Marko comes striding into the War Room, the same boisterous smile on his face as always, within the frame of his wild reddish beard. He’s been growing his hair ever since we were released from Stark. It now hangs below his shoulders, as uncombed as his beard.
He approaches us without shame or remorse. I don’t think he’s ever felt those particular emotions.
“This is true?” I ask Marko, already knowing it is. My brother doesn’t lie.
“Of course.” Marko shrugs. “The girl was pretty. And it’s a useful deterrent. Warlords have always known that the best way to subjugate a man is to fill his women with your seed. It’s why Genghis Khan has sixteen million descendants.”
Marko lets out his booming laugh, slapping his hands against his meaty thighs.
I’m not laughing or smiling.
Dominik glances quickly between Marko and me, probably wondering how Marko even knew we were meeting in here tonight.
I would expect nothing less from him.
“That is not my way,” I say to Marko. “It’s one thing to bend a man, another to break him. You sow nothing but the seeds of your own demise when you make bitter enemies for yourself. That is the kind of act that demands revenge.”
“I’d like to see Chaykovsky try,” Marko scoffs. “He’s no one and nothing.”
“You went there for the guns and the title,” I say. “That was punishment enough. We did not agree on more.”
“I don’t take orders from you, Ivan,” Marko says. His tone is casual, and his smile as friendly as ever. But I see the first hint of malice in his eyes—the glint of that demon, waking and beginning to stir.
“I’m not talking about orders,” I say. “I’m talking about a mutually agreed-upon plan.”
“Plans are a guideline.” Marko shrugs.
“Not to me they’re not.”
I see his jaw tighten beneath the red beard. He exhales through his nostrils, our eyes locked in place: mine dark, his an odd shade of green, like cloudy water in a stagnant pool.
Then he smiles again, breaking my gaze to stride around the room, pretending to examine the oil paintings on the walls and the heavy wooden mantle over the wide, cold fireplace where no wood burns in the grate.
Marko likes to take up space in a room. He likes to stand and walk so you never forget his stature, how easily he could destroy the furniture or overturn even this massive slab table.
“I don’t think your brother likes me,” Marko says, raising a gingery brow in Dom’s direction.
Dominik stiffens. “I never said that.”
“You don’t have to say it,” Marko hisses, the anger leaking out now. “It’s in those judgmental looks, in every time you avoid me, in every instance where you run to your brother to tattle!”