I can’t believe this shit. Can’t believe Katerina found me here. Tonight of all nights. Fuck.
I push her away and am about to race out to catch Corinne when, for no reason at all, I look to the left. Holy shit. Seated in the private room—out of the way so I hadn’t seen them when we entered—is an entire table of Kuznetsov Bratva men.
They’re all looking at me.
I’m swarmed by too many thoughts and feelings to categorize. Duty. Loyalty to the Bratva. Respect for Leonid. Honoring my father.
But none of that is as important as the shock and pain I forced on Corinne. The misery twisting like a knife in my own gut.
But I go because of duty and loyalty to my family and because I cannot afford to offend Leonid. He smiles, claps twice as he motions for silence, then presents me like I’m a fucking prize on a game show and he’s Vanna White.
“The future of our business, this boy right here,” he announces.
He grasps my shoulder like he’s my long-lost father—the way my real long-lost father never has—and gives a squeeze. My gut churns. All I want it to get to Corrie.
Leonid hands me a drink—whiskey, neat—and I drink it down in one burning gulp. I need the pain and the courage.
Some of the men seated around the table look at me strangely, but I don’t give a fuck what they think about me. I’m my own man and I know who I am. And right now, I’m a man who wants to get the fuck out of here and find Corrie so I can explain. And apologize. And apologize more.
Leonid throws his head back. “You are Bratva through and through. When your father and I were boys in Russia …”
Leonid and my father each have a thousand ‘when I was a boy in Russia’ stories. I’ve heard all the hoopla about life after the czars and Stalin and when the Soviet Union became known as the former Soviet Union and life as they knew it splintered into pieces. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard my father start a sentence with, “Fucking Reagan...”
They were children for most of it. But in Russia, history is rich, also tainted by propaganda spewed by whoever came into power. The real truth came from those who lived it. Leonid. Bogan Dubrovsky. Men like them who’ve seized power in America and made names for themselves that are the whispers of legends back in “the motherland.”
My name is going to be on that list. Someday. Because I’m supposed to marry Katerina Kuznetsov and unite two powerful families, then have children to ensure that power remains in the family. Those children will have Katerina’s hair and cat eyes.
Not Corrie’s. Katerina’s.
I try to focus on Leonid’s story, but my mind is pinwheeling down memory lane.
Corrie and me riding horses as the sun sets in the distance…
Peach cobbler at the Boulevard Diner, the way her eyes light up when the sugar hits her tongue…
Kissing her beneath the apple tree in front of her parents’ house…
We had a life planned. Things could’ve been different.
But I left. I left her. Broke her heart.
And for what? To come to the city and be a killer.
I have a chance now to fix things. Or rather, I had. But I’ve fucked it up now. Right when it all seemed so possible. So plausible.
I stand abruptly. My chair screeches backwards. All the secondary conversations around the table hush and every eye, gaze, and backward glance is aimed at me in confusion.
I’m disrespecting Leonid by interrupting him like this. But if he doesn’t like that, he’s going to be even more furious about what I say next.
“I can’t marry you,” I say to Katerina. I look up at her father, who’s glaring at me in confusion. “I can’t marry your daughter, Leonid.”
The silence erupts into a cacophony of shouting, finger pointing, and two women—neither of which are Katerina—burst into tears.
The thing is, I don’t give a fuck about any of it. I want to see Corrie. I have to make the wrongs right this time.
The curses from the assembled Bratva men are growing in intensity the way only Russians can convey.
“Slovach’!
“Mudak!”
“Schas po ebalu poluchish, suka, blyad!”
Jerk. Shithead. I’m going to kill you, bitch, motherfucker!
I’ll explain later, take the heat for my decision, but right now, I need to get to Corrie. Leaving the table shouldn’t be an ordeal, but an old woman is blocking my path and to get past, I’m either going to have to physically move her or I’m going to have to figure out how to go through her. Because she isn’t moving.
I take her by the shoulders and nudge her to the side. Gently. Ashamed I’ve put my hands on her at all, but desperate enough to do it again if I need to.
Finally, I make it outside the building to the sidewalk, with my cell pressed against my ear. I want Corinne to answer, but it won’t matter if she doesn’t. I’m going to find her and since she doesn’t have anywhere to go but to her parents’, I’ll go there.
Leonid and about ten other Kuznetsov men storm out of the restaurant after me. I’m not dumb enough to think they’re out here for any other reason than to kill me for my disrespect of Katerina.
Fortunately, the valet has gone to fetch my ride so I’ll only have to put up with this shit until he gets here.
“How dare you?” Leonid is in my face, close enough I can smell the alcohol on his breath. “You disrespect my daughter, my family, my country, my Bratva!”
“I am doing what I have to do, Leonid,” I say levelly. Where the fuck is that valet? I need Corinne. I need her like I need air.
“What you need to do, eh?” He crosses his arms. One of his nephews, a beefy, muscle-bound thug, comes to stand at his side. “What you need to do is go inside and apologize to my daughter. Honor your deal.”
Another nephew flanks the first. There are two others now behind me.
I don’t have a choice.
So I strike first and I strike hard. I can’t wait for them to gain footing, to get the upper hand. The first cousin goes down and I aim for the second as the third grabs my swinging arm and the fourth grabs the other.
Shit. I jerk free of the smaller cousin and use my momentum to swing the man still holding me away. That moves me out of the path of one of the others.
But the bastard holding onto my arm is strong and determined, hanging onto me like I’m a life raft and he’s a drowning man. So I pull him close and dive my forehead into his nose. He lets go as my car pulls up and I run around and climb in as the valet moves out. I hate running like this, but neither do I want to be forced into killing these men. Besides, Corinne is far more important. So I put the pedal to the floor and screech away.
As I drive, I look down at my injured hand in my lap. It is cracked open from that first swing and bleeding onto my pants. I ruin far too many suits this way. And I lost my phone in the melee, so I can’t call Corinne. That also means my father can’t call me, because undoubtedly, he’s already heard by now that I’ve thrown away the alliance, the marriage, and my future.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to kill me as badly as Leonid does.
I race to Corinne’s parents’ house. It’s a one-hour drive if I do the speed limit. I make it there in thirty-eight minutes.