Page 17 of Scarlet Vows
Painfully.
Nothing less than I deserved.
In fact, I’d go so far as to say Demyan would kill me over fake marrying his Angel.
Gregov, one of the higher security men, knocks on the door.
“Voydite,” I say, asking him to come in.
Gregov leads Boris Gelsky inside. I wait until Gregov leaves to stand and head to the door.
Then I shake his hand. The disappointment that I’m not Demyan is clear on his face, but there’s no malice or anything behind it. Just the letdown that he’s not speaking to the big boss, the pakhan himself.
“Demyan sends his apologies, but he’s conducting business elsewhere. Vodka?”
The man nods, and I pour him a glass and hand it to him.
I sit. “Let’s talk, shall we?”
I don’t get homeuntil late, and then I flop down on my sofa in my duplex apartment in South Loop and loosen my tie.
The meeting went well, and I think Boris will be good to have under our umbrella. He’ll be an ally and enjoy protection from a bigger, more powerful family, and he’ll lend us people when needed.
I called Demyan on my way home, and he approves. I didn’t need to make the call, as he reminded me. He trustsme. And it gets a property he didn’t care about off our hands and lands us a small ally as well.
But I needed to call. It’s not guilt for the thoughts I had over Alina. Nope. It’s because I like to keep things inside tight perimeters. Keep things neat and tidy and structured.
I’d have turned it down if I didn’t think Boris wanted to align, but all my research into him and his operations was backed up with the meeting with him.
That, and how he moved past his disappointment that I wasn’t Demyan. He did it with style, honesty, and without a hidden agenda.
I think we’ll both benefit from it. The Yegorovs and the Gelskys.
With a sigh, I pull off my damn tie, get up, shuck my jacket, and pour a drink. In a bit, I may go for a run. But first, I need a moment of decompression, one I can’t ensure with exercise.
Because of that fucking bullshit deal with my estranged grandfather’s estate.
I push off my shoes, glad I dragged the bottle of whiskey with me—I’m not in a vodka mood—and I top up my glass. Then I grab my phone, and as I sip the drink, I open up my photos and scroll through the family album I created.
It’s mostly me and Alina, or just Alina.
Fuck this whole inheritance predicament’s utter bullshit. Maybe I should let it go. Not tell Demyan. Not even tell anyone else. But where would the money go? The power? As much as I hate the manipulation from beyond the grave, I want to fuck him over by just finding a woman to do this with and then go our separate ways.
I pause on a selfie we took at the park, crowded on a swing with Sasha in our arms. It fucking breaks my heart. She’s so perfect. She’d be the perfect one. I know that. Even in this picture, Sasha looks like he could be ours.
It kills me not being able to admit how I feel even a little. Or even that I like her more than a friend. I can’t ask her out. I can’t do anything at all, and I wouldn’t.
Disgusted, I close the album and finish the drink. Then I toss the phone onto the coffee table.
What I need to do is probably order dinner—Chinese at this hour—but I sit back, sighing.
I need to order some dinner and then concentrate on finding a trustworthy woman with bratva ties, maybe with one of our allies, one who’ll agree to the terms I set up. A payment, perhaps, and one year.
I’ll need the pakhan’s permission. And I’ll need to trust him not to try and trap me into giving up everything to him and his family. But the problem with that is, the only other bratva pakhan I fully trust is Demyan.
Other?
No, only.
