Page 49 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“What?” I ask.

“You don’t drop a bomb like that and not give us any details,” Max mutters. “What happened?”

I leave nothing out and they quietly listen, occasionally exchanging nervous and irritated glances. Ivan’s nostrils flare. He’s angry. Artur becomes restless. Max, on the other hand, sets his glass on the night table and sneaks his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

“Polina was out of line,” he says. “We’ll make sure she never bothers you again.”

“She was pretty adamant that you’re going to marry her,” I reply, searching his face for any hint that my worst nightmare might come true. But all I find is ironclad reassurance as he peers deep into my eyes.

“I’d rather die a thousand deaths before I put a ring on that woman’s finger.”

Artur sits on the edge of the bed, lovingly gazing at me. “Didn’t we just tell you that we’re going to throw your father’s political career in the trashcan just so Larionov can’t pressure us into marrying his daughter, among other things? If that’s not a declaration of love, I don’t know what is.”

“Love?” I hear the word and repeat it for myself, my heart eager to stop and drink it in.

“We’re just getting started,” Artur says, inching closer beside me. “We were already on a different path when you came along, Lyric. All you did was speed things up. We’re trying to adjust to it as best we can, but if there’s one thing that the three of us have come to agree upon completely, it’s that we want you in our lives. We want you, all of you, every wonderful facet of you.”

Tears prick my eyes as I try to process his words, to wrap my head around what he just said and the ensuing implications. “Glad I’m not the only one who feels this,” I say, nestling my head in the warm space between Max’s stern jaw and muscular shoulder. “So glad.”

“We don’t know how this will end, and we certainly don’t want to make promises that we can’t keep, promises that we could unintentionally end up breaking.”

“We don’t want to disappoint you in any way,” Artur adds.

Ivan looks at me. “But you are ours, Lyric. Polina can stomp her feet all she wants. She’s never getting between us.”

15

Ivan

It was only a matter of time before Lyric would be harassed by Polina. She’s trying to hurt and control us. Max warned about this. Artur knew it would be coming. I did, too, I just didn’t think I’d react to it the way I did.

I’m not the share-your-feelings type of guy, yet Lyric tapped into that side of me the other night.

We have work to do if we’re to build a future with Lyric, if we’re to steer the Bratva away from the old ways without the city of Chicago swallowing us up whole.

Matthew Phelps needs to be knocked down a couple of pegs. Either we completely destroy him, leaving Bowman and Smith without an important political voice in the media, or we turn him, getting him to give us all the information he’s got on those bastards. Either way, Phelps isn’t jumping into that senate seat anytime soon.

With Artur and Max both busy with errands of their own, I take a long drive around downtown one afternoon, attempting to lose my federal tail before I switch gears and delve deep into the south side. I meet with an associate at a boxing club close to one of the last surviving community centers in the area. It’s a beat-up dump, but kids and adults still come here to blow off steam, to steer clear of the gangs, and to do something better with their spare time.

“We could’ve met somewhere else,” Paul says. We’re sitting on one of the wooden benches next to the boxing ring, two tweens going at it while their coach barks directions at them. “This isn’t our usual cup of tea.”

Paul Kozlov once ran bets for my father. A small man with beady eyes and one too many knife scars, he made a living by getting to know people’s deepest, darkest secrets. Now, Paul is one of our best hidden and most dangerous weapons against anyone we might deem adversarial.

“It isn’t, but I’ve got Feds watching my every move,” I tell him, my gaze wandering around the room. “How’ve you been, Paul?”

I slip him an envelope with an obscene amount of cash in it. Once our accounts were unfrozen, we took everything out and switched back to good old-fashioned paper, just in case Smith is able to bamboozle another judge before we can take him down.

“Better now,” Paul nods and grins with gratitude, putting the envelope in his inner jacket pocket.

“I’m glad to hear that. And the kids?”

“Ten and twelve, Ivan. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for giving me boys. They’re easier to deal with, believe me,” he says. “My sister, the poor woman, she’s dealing with three adolescent girls. It’s chaos at her house, all day, every day.”

“I can imagine,” I chuckle softly, still scanning the room.

“You weren’t followed?” Paul asks me.

I shake my head slowly. “It took me thirty minutes to lose my tail.”

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