Page 56 of Sexting the Silverfox

“You tried; I’ll give you all the credit in the world for that,” he says. “But it’s time for you to admit it, little sister. There is no life outside the Bratva for a Fedorov. There never was.”

“It’s no use,” Anton chimes in. “She’ll scram the first chance she gets.”

“Until then, however, we need to try to convince her to accept reality. Because even if she does run off again, our father will keep hunting her.”

“And I’ll keep running until he dies. He’s not going to live forever,” I reply.

“Audrey, let me put it this way. For Jason’s sake, you’d do well to obey and return to New York with us,” Vitaly says. “You know Papa will do whatever it takes to make sure you never think of running away ever again.”

“And he expects me to just smile and wave as he marries me off to some old, impotent fart who, up until yesterday, still had a bounty on my head,” I scoff.

“We’re still trying to talk him out of the whole arrangement with Piotr,” Vitaly sighs. “I need a bit more time for that. But I promise we’ll find something agreeable for everyone involved.”

“The only scenario that is agreeable for me is if you let me go right now,” I say. “Nothing else matters. I’ve built a life here, Vitaly. I’m happy. For the first time in my miserable existence, nobody cares who my father or brothers are. Nobody knows me.”

“Well, the Chicago Bratva knows,” Anton reminds me.

Bitterness lingers on the back of my tongue but I don’t have a snappy comeback for that particular remark. I notice a frown pulling Vitaly’s eyebrows tightly together as he swirls the red wine in his glass.

“Something is bugging me,” my oldest brother says.

“What’s that?” Anton asks.

“I get the kidnapping part, but why’d they try to kill her the other night?” Vitaly replies. “It doesn’t make sense. Audrey would be more useful to Arkady Abramovic alive, not dead. Her death would only lead to an all-out war that not even the Feds could stop. The streets of Chicago would run red with blood. Our father may be the way he is, but I know for a fact that he would burn the whole city down if Audrey were to ever—”

“Don’t even say it,” Anton cuts him off, genuinely startled. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Vitaly’s right, though,” I say. “What was the point of them trying to kill me?”

It’s a good question. Unfortunately, none of us have the answer. Only the certainty that the feud between the Fedorov and the Abramovic families must be resolved sooner rather than later before it gets worse.

“There is one thing I can guarantee, Audrey, when all this is over,” Vitaly says.

“Amaze me,” I grumble.

“Jason and his daughter will be safe. I spoke to our father, and he gave me his word. The Abramovic Bratva will know to never go anywhere near them,” he replies.

“Does that come with some kind of condition? Come on, spit it out. Papa would never do me a solid where Jason is concerned. There has to be a catch.”

Vitaly smiles. “Assuming you stay put and stop embarrassing him.”

“So let me get this straight. If I’m a good girl and do as I’m told, Papa will make sure that the Abramovic Bratva never touches a hair on Jason or Lily’s heads. But if I run away again, he will no longer be responsible for whatever might happen to them, am I right?” I ask, my blood running hot and cold at the same time.

“Basically, yes,” Vitaly says, his gaze softening slightly. “I’m truly sorry, Audrey. You don’t deserve any of this, but it is the hand that you were dealt. You have to play it. You can’t leave the table.”

The conversation isn’t going anywhere, and they cannot help me. Our father’s grip on them is simply too tight. Unshakeable. They were conditioned into their roles and responsibilities, and while they may have averted their eyes from choices I made for myself, our father wouldn’t allow it.

Therefore, they must enforce his will, whether they like it or not.

As long as Grigori Fedorov is alive, I will never truly be free, nor will I be able to fully rely on my brothers for support.

I must fend for myself.

As the hours pass, my brothers switch from wine to vodka. After the last of the dessert plates are cleared from the table, we linger, talking about our childhood—happy memories, of which there are few; not-so-happy memories, of which there are some; and terrible memories, of which there are plenty. We wouldn’t be the people we are today without them, but I dare imagine a version of myself that didn’t require all that suffering to become precisely that.

I’m stone sober, and I watch in mild amusement as my brothers ramble on in a mixture of English and Russian, reminiscing with glassy eyes about what it was like when Mom was still alive.

“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” Anton asks Vitaly.

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