Page 5 of The Lazarov Bratva

She’ll love both of them, I’m sure of it.

Melanie appears in the doorway, her leopard print dress hugging her body in all the perfect ways that caught my attention last night. However, she bores me now that Alena is on my mind. Melanie holds out my weathered leather jacket, and I accept it with a grunt.

“So, what’s the occasion?” she asks, popping chewing gum into her mouth. “How do you want me to act?”

“Be on your best behavior,” I reply, snatching up the present and tucking it under one arm. As we head for the door, I catch her wrist and pull Melanie closer, my voice low. “I mean it. I’m not paying for embarrassment. This party is important.”

“Relax, Chief, I’ll be a fucking golden girl.” Melanie smirks.

I release her and hold open the door.

She can be whatever girl she likes. I just need her hanging off my arm and looking stunning.

I want Alena’s attention on me. That’ll be the fastest way to get it.

3

ALENA

My mother makes this look easy. Clad in a silver dress that drips down her body like a waterfall, she moves around the party like everyone is hungry for her approval, and mostly, she’s right. She commands attention in a way I would admire if she showed me but a fraction of the warmth she showed her guests.

Her black hair, poker straight and dyed, flows down her back like a streak of tar, and two perfectly plucked eyebrows pinch together as she takes in me and my dress. It’s a gamble. I can see the storm forming in her eyes, the cold fury that I would dare descend the grand staircase in a dress that barely covers my ass, but she doesn’t get a chance to unleash hell on me.

Madame Privyota greets me with a smile so wide her wrinkles almost vanish, and she presses an elderly hand to my bare shoulder.

“Alena! You look perfectly ravishing,” she exclaims croakily. It’s been a few years since she was by my side every day, giving piano lessons, but despite her declining health, it warms me to see her here.

“Madame Privyota?—”

My mother, Mara, cuts in before I can say a word of thanks. “The birthday girl is needed.”

“Of course.” Madame Privyota nods quickly. “Lots of people to see, I expect. Happy Birthday, Alena.”

“Thank you!” is all I manage to say before my mother has her claws in my upper arm and she’s dragging me to the outskirts of the room. With tables glittering with priceless crockery and the diamond chandeliers above twinkling down on the milling crowd, anyone would be mistaken for thinking this was a wedding rather than an eighteenth birthday party.

“Alena, what on earth are you wearing?”

Mara’s perfume assaults my nose, and my eyes water briefly. I try to free my arm from her hand, but her grip is like iron. I can’t wiggle free, and each jerk of my arm only drives her claw-like nails deeper into my arm.

“A dress, what does it look like?” I yank my arm again, pain be damned. “You told me to dress up.”

“I told you to look respectable. Instead, you come down looking like some sort of whore. Do you have any idea how important tonight is for your father?”

“Dad? It’s my birthday,” I insist hotly, warmth creeping up my throat. “Not everything has to be about?—”

“Not another word,” Mara snaps. “Have you no shame?” Her eyes bore into mine, green and fierce. If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect there to be hatred burning there. Suddenly, her face melts into a warm, motherly smile that sends my heart skipping, and I smile back.

Ever eager for affection, I hope for a moment that she’s softening to me and my dress until someone brushes too close to our corner. Reality wraps its cold fingers around my throat and my smile dies.

She doesn’t care about me. She cares only about appearances.

“There are people I want you to meet. And please, keep that sour look off your face. You have no idea how lucky you are, do you? No idea what lengths your father and I will go to in order to secure your future.”

“Your future, you mean,” I mutter under my breath. She doesn’t hear me. Her thin arm snakes around my shoulders, and she guides me through the crowd toward an elderly man and woman.

“Happy birthday!” is chorused at me, and I force the politest smile onto my face.

So begins the evening. Faces I only know in passing congratulate me on turning eighteen and ask the loaded question of what I see in my future. The approved answer is supporting my father and the family in all of its business endeavors. After all, I’m the good little heir who will do her duty because it’s the right thing to do. My lack of knowledge of the world and limited experiences with it make it hard to hold a conversation beyond the scripts written by my family, no matter how hard I try.

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