Page 145 of Dirty Grovel

Some are from cloaked enemies.

Others are straddling the line between the two.

“The news has broken,” I tell Oksana, reaching for my vodka glass and downing it in one shot. “The world has learned that Boris is dead.”

“What do they want to know?” Oksana asks, one eyebrow arching with disgust.

“What you would want to know in their place,” I answer grimly. “What happens next?”

“Jesus,” she mutters, refilling my glass. “His body isn’t even cold yet. Can’t the hyenas wait one damn day before they start circling? Everyone deserves a mourning period.”

Unlike her to be so sentimental. Perhaps she’s softening in her old age.

Although I value my life too much to say it out loud.

“This is the Bratva, Maman,” I remind her. “There is no mourning period. Just moves and countermoves.”

“I can handle his funeral,” Oksana says smoothly. “I’ve been working on arrangements for the last few days anyway.”

“Before he died? Scandalous.”

“I’m a realist. And I don’t believe in wasting time.” To illustrate that point, she pulls out her phone and starts typing fast. “Speaking of not wasting any time, your fiancée should be present.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Oksana’s eyes narrow as she glances at me over the top of her phone. “She is going to be your wife, son. She is the mother of your child. Having her there is important. It will show strength and unity.”

“Sutton stays at home,” I growl. “Safe and out of sight.”

Her lips purse, but she says nothing. She doesn’t have to—she clearly thinks that’s a mistake and, fuck, I’m inclined to agree.

But the thought of exposing Sutton in such a big way, so soon after Sydney’s little gun show, feels too uncomfortable to bear.

Before she can launch into an offensive, my mother’s phone vibrates, drawing her attention to the screen. She stares for a long while, her eyes scanning back and forth, back and forth.

As the seconds tick by, her mouth tightens until it’s the thinnest slash imaginable.

“Fucking assholes,” she spits fiercely, sliding down to the chair at her side.

“What is it now?”

Her gold-brown eyes rise to mine. “The Martineks are going for your jugular. Their hands are behind the op-ed I just read.”

I round the table and pluck the cell phone out of Oksana’s hand.

It takes me two readthroughs to fully process what I’m seeing.

Because what I’m seeing is ugly fucking bullshit.

The “anonymous sources” quoted in the article make several damning accusations.

One—that I murdered my uncle in cold blood in a bid for power.

Two—that I’m a failed businessman with a crumbling empire that doesn’t stand a chance now that my uncle is dead.

Three—that I am controlled and manipulated by the women in my life. Sutton is named. Sydney is named. Oksana is named, too.

I’m on the verge of flinging the phone clean across the room. Oksana probably senses the same thing, because she grabs it back before I can make good on the urge.

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