Page 19 of One of Them

“Do me a favor. If I dance on any tables, feel free to knock me out.”

I matched his mood. “You can count on me. Can this be a two-way agreement?”

“You’re on. Lorenzo Artuso. Sicilian mafia.”

He held out his hand, and I accepted, shaking it firmly. “Maxim Galkin. Bratva.”

“Right,” he smirked, “the pale eyes and attitude gave you away.”

“Said the hairy one. You were such a hard guess,” I shot back, “with your overuse of the word ‘stronzo’ and those shiny shoes,” I added, pointing to his perfectly polished moccasins.

A quick look at the guy was enough to categorize him. He wasn’t far behind me in that regard.

“Now you’re pushing.”

With a cocky smile and a casual shrug, I admitted, “I love doing that.”

A brief second passed before he surprised me again, this time with an unexpected honesty.

“If we lived in a world where we could be more than just a coexisting party, I might say I like you, Galkin.”

I didn’t hold back the laugh that escaped me.

“Can you imagine?”

We shared a look of understanding and left it at that. If we were honest, we probably had a lot in common. Growing up in any of the organizations meant you were hardened into toughness. The things you saw, the actions you witnessed, they shaped you into who you became. Weakness wasn’t an option. Friendships? A luxury no one could afford. Not in a world of favors and temporary trusts.

With a double shot of vodka, I left the Italian to his staring contest and rejoined the family. By the time we regrouped, we had reached the designated meeting spot: a formal dining room.

The reality hadn’t fully hit me yet. This would be Alisa’s life if she married Ilya.

As the Pakhan’s wife, she’d be expected to host, plan, and handle whatever else came with these endless meetups. That would be her role.

Alisa, my sister, who stands up to our father and talks back to our mother. The same Alisa who sneaks men into her childhood bedroom when she isn’t busy sneaking out herself. Who goes to raves just to live in the moment. It was almost impossible to understand why she agreed to go through with the contract, but it was her choice, and I accepted it for what it was. That didn’t mean I understood it, or ever would. Or that I saw it as the right decision.

One look around made it painfully clear that this was no ordinary event. Far from a typical family gathering, no expense had been spared. Only the best for the Pakhan. How he operated reflected on the entire organization, leaving no room for error.

Perfectly ironed napkins, silverware sets, and flowers of every variety filled every inch of the endless display of wealth. Soon, the table would overflow with food, and gossip would be served alongside the guests’ steaks.

Formalities were never my thing. Sure, I wore a tailor-made suit, mainly for how it hugged my body. No complaints there. But stripped bare, I was still me. No hidden truths, no fake persona. What you saw and heard was what you got. If you couldn’t handle me, that was your problem. I wouldn’t sacrifice a fraction of myself.

Unlike them. The ones who wore masks, presenting a front to cover the shame underneath. They were nothing without the lies they sold.

“He realizes we’re part of his organization. Who is there to meet?” Luka asked, trying to make sense of the gathering as we settled in the room.

“I guess we’re about to find out,” I replied, hoping to settle his unease. Seated at the edge, we all waited for the host. Andrei positioned himself closest to Pakhan, as his role as head of the family dictated.

My eyes narrowed at the set table, fighting the urge to flip the damn thing over. I promised Alisa I’d behave. And I will… try.

The door creaked open, interrupting the inner monologue I was enjoying. Ilya stepped in, the woman in red trailing behind. Her gaze swept across the room, landing on each of us slowly, as if memorizing our faces, matching them to something only she knew.

It took seconds before they made their way to the empty seats. Seconds I used to return the attention she’d given me.

Ilya greeted Alisa with the same enthusiasm you’d expect from a man caught in an arranged marriage or one of his position. A fucking nod. Stoic. Detached.

Okay, we need to have a talk about his manners.

Taya, as I learned from Lorenzo, the fellow bar enthusiast, stepped forward with swift, confident strides, seating herself at Ilya’s right. A chair, usually reserved for the second-in-command, Malek, who wasn’t present, was now occupied by the blonde woman.

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