Page 170 of Emerald Malice

“He’ll have left us some sort of message,” I say. “Slavik didn’t come back just to avoid me.”

As we step into the rear office, I come face to face with the “message” my father has left me.

It’s in the form of none other than Fyodor Navalny, my father’s right-hand man.

Seated behind the ancient, crumbling desk, he looks like he did a decade ago—big, beefy, grizzled into something barely human. He’s perhaps a little grayer around the temples and the beard, but no less fierce for it.

“Fyodor,” I greet, hiding my rage behind a forced smile. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has, young master.”

Young master. The word choice is not an accident.

Fyodor is reminding me of my place now that Slavik is back. He’s reminding me that the hierarchy has changed.

I grin a little wider. This time, I don’t have to force it. “It’s pakhan now, Fyodor. It has been since Slavik fled the country with his loyalists and his whore.”

Fyodor doesn’t react. “I assume you’re here to speak to your brother.”

“I figured it was the easiest way to see Slavik.”

“Then you’d be right,” Fyodor rasps, his voice grating like sandpaper. “You can follow me. I’ll take you to the pakhan.”

More power games. A younger Andrey might’ve taken the bait. Might’ve raged and seethed at my father’s petty insults. I’m older now. I have more to lose.

And less room in my head for the old bastard who tried to mold me in his image.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Fyodor is halfway out of his seat when I speak. As I do, he freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Slavik has gone through a lot of trouble to get my attention, but a phone call would have sufficed. Then again, he’s always been a showman, hasn’t he?” I pause, enjoying the flash of irritation on Fyodor’s face. “If my father is so desperate for an audience with me, he knows where to find me. I do have some errands to run today, though, so… let’s give him an hour, yes? If that won’t work, I’m afraid I won’t have any more time for the foreseeable future. Please pass along my apologies to the old man.”

With that, I turn and leave.

It’s a distinct pleasure to turn my back on a man who used to do the worst of my father’s fucked-up bidding. To not fear him in the least as I go.

Shura is pale-faced as he climbs into the Escalade beside me.

“Why the fuck would you invite the bastard to the manor?” Shura growls.

“Because Slavik needs to understand that I’m not intimidated by him.” My hands tighten on the steering wheel. “And there’s no fucking way I was going to go crawling to him. It’s my Bratva now. It’s time my father learned that lesson.”

61

ANDREY

There was never a doubt in my mind that Slavik would show up. He’s too curious, too greedy, too fucking pompous not to seize the chance to come to the manor.

I watch from the front parlor as four SUVs stop at the base of the driveway and my brother and father climb out.

They’re accompanied by a dozen men, all decked out with earpieces and guns. For reasons I’ll never understand, the men who walked onto that jet plane and left with my father to Russia have remained by his side all these years. I’d commend them if it didn’t mean more people I might have to kill.

Viktor’s suit hangs loosely on him. There are dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks are hollow. Must be hard to eat with that mangled right hand of his, I think as he shoves his bandaged hand into his pocket.

“I’ll do the honors of letting our ‘guests’ inside.” Shura scowls before trudging to the foyer. Just as he disappears through the door, my phone starts to ring.

It’s not Natalia this time. It’s Leonty.

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