Page 50 of Dark Truths

We’ll just agree to disagree there. Without his steady dose of alcohol, Sergei is drifting through the stages of grief. Anger, sadness, denial, bargaining. The only one he hasn’t experienced is acceptance, but I doubt he’ll cross into that anytime soon.

“Fucking O’Leary’s.”

Okay, that’s not what I expected him to say next.

“How’s that?”

“That Irish bastard, Connor Fraser, showing his traitor face at my brother’s funeral, of all places,” Sergei answers, venom coating his tone. “He should have been killed for what he did to Patrick.”

“Patrick’s brother didn’t think so.”

“Weak little shits. All of them. If any of my men tried something like that, I’d have them killed before their next heartbeat.”

I hear the threat cleverly veiled in his words and acknowledge it with a small nod, even though it weighs no heavier than a bug bite in my mind.

“Patrick killed your brother, Sergei. Connor came to show the O’Leary family’s respect and apologize for his father-in-law’s actions.”

“My brother’s killer deserved to die by my hands, not Fraser’s.”

Again, agree to disagree.

“The DiAngelos didn’t have to attend either.”

Sergei grunts, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “It was only Leo DiAngelo and his son.”

“We’re lucky they came,” I remind him. “We’re lucky any of them came at all, given the outcome of that night.”

“They just want to avoid a war,” Sergei spits.

He’s not wrong. There is no question that if Patrick or Igor survived, someone would be out for blood. The Irish against the Italians for having Rose and Liam. And the Italians against the Russians for kidnapping Rose and Liam and injuring Enzo in the first place. Their deaths make for a bigger headache for me when I give my report to the FBI, but all things considered, them dying was the best outcome for us all.

“You should as well. Do you really think it’s a good idea to start another war when we have the Triads breathing down our backs?”

Sergei snorts, and the small smile on his lips catches my eye. “The Triads are of no concern to me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

With a heavy sigh, Sergei leans back in his seat, rests his head on the headrest, and closes his eyes. “Nothing, Volkov. Forget I said anything. Now, please shut up. I have a headache and need to rest before we get back to the house.”

His words leave me feeling uneasy. The Triads have become a big concern over the last few months. As I expected, they’ve turned their attention to the Russians, and for him to brush them off so casually is unnerving. I pick up my phone and fireoff a text to Alexei to get me everything recent we have on the Triads. I need to check on a few things. None of which is good if proven true.

There’s a crowd at the house when we arrive, all of whom offer their condolences and sympathies. Some are genuine, but most are as fake as the women’s terrible boob jobs and the men’s spray tans. To a stranger, it would appear that Igor was well liked among the Bratva men and women, but I know differently. They’re here to gain favor with the Pakhan. To put on a show for the boss and make an impression to get whatever it is they really want.

I leave Sergei to his undying fans to search out Alexei since he hasn't responded to my text and find him in my office, sprawled out on the couch with a blonde on his lap. A very familiar blonde.

“Sophia?”

Sergei’s daughter peers over her shoulder, sporting a saucy smile with her smeared red lipstick. “Oh, hi, Dimitri.”

“What are you doing here? Your father said you weren’t due home until after the holidays.”

Sophia climbs off Alexei’s lap and straightens her already short dress. “That was before my uncle was killed. I’m here to show my support for the family.”

“Why weren’t you at the funeral, then?”

“My flight landed an hour ago,” she explains, walking to a mirror to fix her smeared makeup.

“Then shouldn’t you be downstairs by your father’s side? Showing him this support of yours?”

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