Page 15 of The Way You Hurt Me

DIMITRI

The week before Christmas is insanely busy at work, given the fact that my company technically shuts its doors from the twenty-third to the second of January. I give every one of my employees paid leave, independent of their vacation time, for two simple reasons: if Wolven Gaming bothered to go through the trouble of hiring someone and keeping them employed, I want to retain that talent. Pleasing my subordinates is one way to ensure loyalty. And secondly: everyone’s fucking useless that week in any case.

But the rest of the world didn’t get the memo. I have seventeen invitations to holiday celebrations for partners this week. I have to feel sorry for all those who have to choose between actually doing what they want to with their loved ones and showing up at their end-of-year work do.

For my part, I don’t have much scheduled, other than my standing invitation at the Hunts’, so I actually don’t mind. Still, I have to pick and choose—or spend a couple of hours in one place and then arrive fashionably late to another, but that’s a bit of a hassle.

On Thursday, I frown at my schedule, mulling it over. I RSVPed to both King Industries’ New Year’s bash and Eros Corps’ gala. They start at the same time. Which one should I head to first?

The Kings are one of my major partners. I invest in various branches of their businesses—hotels, infrastructures, finances—not to mention, my standing membership to their Tower. But Eros Corps is certainly more fun. A fairly newish venture, the company produces an innovative range of adult toys. We’ve been chatting about creating apps to sync with some of their vibrators. More to the point, their founder’s Caleb Cole, and he hired another of our old college buddies as his CFO. I don’t get much of a chance to see my friends these days. It’d be nice to catch up.

“The Tower first, please, Charles,” I call to my driver.

“Nice. Can I come?”

I shrug. “Sure. You have a membership too. But you’re taking me to Fifth Avenue a couple of hours later.”

“Got it. No drinks, and only time for one tumble. Maybe two.”

I roll my eyes, skimming through the guest list and my executive assistant’s notes. Tonight should be easy; the Kings are agreeable, and there’s no one of consequence at Eros other than Caleb and Christian.

We’re almost at the Tower when my phone vibrates. I frown at the screen. What now?

“Yes,” I cut in shortly, bypassing any greeting.

Irina hasn’t lost her thick accent, although like me, she’s spent most of her teens and all her adulthood mostly stateside. By this point, I have to assume it’s purposeful. She likes to remind the world of her roots. “You have to speak to him. He’s pushing my authority again.”

“Der’mo,” I curse under my breath.

Questioning her authority is, by extent, undermining mine. I married Irina to ensure that.

All this bullshit started because of a woman. Doesn't it, always? I'm told she was hot, but she could have looked like a pig in a dress and it would have been the same. Sasha was the daughter of apakhan—a package, meant to be given as a prize.

Except, she wastakenby my dumbass elder brother.

If it weren't for his stupidity, I could have spent my entire life ignoring my origins, my legacy, happily playing with the gaming company I built from the million bucks I got on my eighteenth birthday.

But he took a damn mafia princess and got himself, as well as a great many people, killed.

Our side won that specific war, assimilating what was left of our family into our bratva. The only problem is, the only Volkovs left alive after that mess were my uncle and me.

Uncle Alexei took over, but he was old. That was always going to be a temporary situation. At age twenty-eight, I inherited a dozen business interests, only half of them even remotely clean. It's been a year and a half, and I’ve done my best to tidy up the mess in order to keep my hands as blood-free as possible, but there's a limit to how removed from my legacy I can be.

Enter Irina, Sasha's little sister, the one princess left. She's actually interested in the business. She knows how to run it. The union made sense. She takes care of the mob, hiding behind my name, because the sexist dicks working for us would never take orders directly from someone in a skirt--and I get to ignore it all. It's a good deal.

The only thing I had to sacrifice for it was what I truly wanted.What I imagine I’d have by now. I can still see it, when I close my eyes. A girl in fluffy sleepers, head thrown over my sofa as she reads, while listening to some music.

A dream I sacrificed.

It's not so much the ring on my finger. I could have explained it's a shield, made her see why it was necessary. I didn't try to pursue the girl, because I still evade assassination attempts and challenges on a daily basis. I can't afford a weakness, and she's just that, even now.

There are three men watching her on shift, two by two, one taking time off. Some of the men I trust most in the underworld. I know no amount of torture would make them spill a single word about her. But if she was seen in my presence, they wouldn't have to talk. She'd be a target.

I don't want that life for her. I don't want that life, point-blank, but I was born into it, and I can deal with it. She's an innocent, completely ignorant of what it means to stand by my side.

Sometimes, I envy my cousins—those who come from the bastard line no one pays much attention to, the Goltzes. First of all, they get a choice as to whether they want in the business or not—I've seen to that. And most of them chose to stay one step removed from it.

But the one who I envy the most is Markus, because he actively chose to work for the brotherhood—part time, as a consultant when needed, rather than a figurehead, but still. And the girl he found is hard as nails, and as bloodthirsty as him. It's so much easier for him.

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