Page 23 of Reign of Four

Are they even coming at all?

I clutch my skirts in my hands and stare at my grandmother sitting across the table from me. She’s staring, with the tiniest of frowns etched across her lips. I haven’t spoken to her in days. There isn’t anything to say to her that won’t turn vile.

I can taste the poison of what’s left unspoken hanging on my tongue, and I swallow the words down with a hearty gulp of wine. Liam catches my eye then, and I give a clumsy smile as he takes his seat.

“Nervous?” His palm finds my knee. “These are our people, Valentina. Our family.” He brushes his thumb across my skin. “They’ll love you because I do.”

The dinner begins with business talk between the men and an appetizer that melts in my mouth. I don’t have to speak since no one calls upon me, and I take the time to continue scanning the room for any disturbances.

Nothing is amiss. It appears as if we’re having a normal dinner party.

Disappointment weighs heavy on my heart. I want to turn around and look at Riot, put my hands on his shoulders and shake him. Did he find my men, or did he give up and come back empty-handed?

“Tell me, Valentina, what are your plans for the orphanage?”

My knife scrapes loudly across my dinner plate. I wasn’t expecting to engage in polite conversation. I’ve been hoping to fall under the radar until it became time to slip away and stab Liam to death in a back room.

Clearing my throat, I set my utensils down. Despite the unexpected call-out, I’ve prepped for this. When I’m not sitting like a doll in Liam’s lap during his war meetings, I’m scouring the reports on Baranova assets—the ones my grandmother poached from Andrei, anyway. I haven’t been around for five years, so without asking her or Liam about them directly, I can only guess about their total volume and value, but from my rough estimates, she must have stolen about thirty percent of Bratva assets from under Andrei’s nose. It’s mostly random patches of vulnerable real estate. The Baranovas have always owned most of the city, so it’s no surprise that some of the less valuable pieces went under the radar. Either someone hasn’t been paying attention, or Katya snagged some of Andrei’s staff, too.

I return the stares of everyone waiting for my response—which happens to be the entire fucking table. Great. Anton’s stare is the most direct, unwavering and unapologetic, and I find myself missing Mikhail. He used to stare at me like that, too.

“From my estimates, there are over a dozen or more unclaimed children housed there. It would be within our best interests to find them suitable homes until we can renovate the property. There are a few upgrades I’d like to see, and a larger staff for additional supervision and management. Idleness can benefit an individual’s creativity, but I’d like to keep them engaged in activities throughout the year to promote socialization and bonding. It’s my understanding that my mother used to handle the foster program, and before that, my grandmother would host movie nights. I’d like not only to continue both programs, but to expand upon them. Pair students with families invested in their futures—teach them life skills, like cooking and cleaning and maintaining a budget. Things they’ll need once they age out, assuming it comes to that.”

For the first time in days, my grandmother clicks her tongue against her teeth. In the relative quiet of people enjoying their dinner, the sound might as well be a gunshot for how loud it sounds.

“Those children do not need additional education, Valentina. Your efforts would best be spent elsewhere. Perhaps on raising your own instead of coddling another’s forgotten child, hm?”

It’s the first mention of an heir that anyone’s given since my return, but I’m expecting it. What is a pakhan’s wife if not an incubator for more mafia spawn?

But what my grandmother is forgetting is that both Andrei and Ezra come from those abandoned children. Although they’d never complain about their upbringing, they had to learn how to survive on their own once they were officially inducted into the Bratva. It’s a hard enough life as it is; we shouldn’t make it even harder, or we’ll lose more people than the orphanage saves. It’s a miracle that Andrei and Ezra rose the ranks on their own, to begin with.

“Those children,” I begin, borrowing my grandmother’s turn of phrase, “become the very foundation that supports our organization, do they not? They deserve more of an education than we give them. They’re as much a part of this family as anyone directly born into it.”

“They’ll work the streets, as they all do once they age out. They won’t need more socialization when it comes to collecting protection fees or handling disturbances at our clubs—we use other means than words here, ditya.” That gains a few chuckles from the peanut gallery, yet my grandmother remains unmoved as she beckons a server over to refill her wine glass. “They’ll become part of this Bratva, and that will be honor enough for the likes of them.” The glug-glug of the wine bottle emptying fills the air, the perfume of her newly filled glass wafting across the table. I crinkle my nose, although it’s more from her words than the bitterness of the drink.

She hates the orphans. Children that we have a duty to protect, to claim as our own, because their birth families either can’t or won’t. That doesn’t make them lesser; it makes them need us even more.

“Are you forgetting that our pakhan and his right hand man come from that very home you scorn, babushka? What would they say if they heard you?—”

My grandmother’s eyes sharpen as she holds the glass over her lips. “Your pakhan is a Dolohov, Valentina, not trash blown in from the gutter. We are one of the oldest bloodlines, worthy of the throne because we were born for it, not because we stole it.”

I realize my mistake as the room falls into tense silence. Everyone here sees Liam—Donovan Dolohov—as our pakhan, not Andrei Leonov, the orphan who somehow impressed my father well enough to be named heir. They’re forgetting who Tolkotsky himself chose to succeed him, or they’re turning a blind eye to it. And for what? To say they have a legitimate claim over the Bratva?

“The only reason the Dolohovs have any claim over this Bratva is because I’m sitting at this table, and no one else’s.” I stare down every person in the room brave enough to meet my gaze. I’m so sick of these veiled political moves. Let’s call it as it is, shall we? “Have we shared the story of how I came to be here, yet? Hm? Has anyone heard that one?” I glare at my grandmother as she chokes on her drink, then at my silent husband.

Liam’s turned to stone at the head of the table, his gaze fixed not on me, but on Katya, like he expects her to save him. Like I’m sure she’s done a thousand times by now.

The real puppeteer has never been Liam, no matter if he calls himself Donovan Dolohov or not. It’s always been Katya—not Katya Baranova, but Katya Dolohov. The woman trying to strong-arm her family line back into power.

“Valentina—”

I cut my grandmother off. She’s said enough. It’s my turn. “I’m sure it’s no surprise that the Dolohovs have dipped their fingers into the drug trade, but you may not have heard that they use them on each other. I know, I was shocked too at first, but that was only after the drugs started to wear off my system.” I shake my head, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. “By then, I was already stumbling down the fucking aisle—the wrong aisle, mind you—to marry our beloved pakhan. Isn’t that right, darling?” I kick Liam’s foot under the table. “Why don’t you tell them how you jabbed a needle into my neck? Or about the assault—I know they’ll especially love that part.”

My grandmother clears her throat and coughs loudly to cover up what I’m saying, and I roll my eyes as she fakes a coughing fit. Her face reddens, then she quickly downs half of her wine. Must have choked on some anger at my outburst.

Serves the bitch right.

I smile broadly at our guests. “So to be clear, the only reason any of the Dolohovs have any shred of power in this city is because my grandmother still bears the Baranova name by marriage, and I happen to have the Baranova name by blood. I’ll let you guess which holds more weight in the eyes of the Bratva.”

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