Page 66 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

But yet again, I play along. In this world, it’s easiest that way.

“Not exactly.”

His smile sours. His voice lowers, cools to an icy snarl. “Then what the fuck are you doing in my office, Dima?”

I sink to the seat he offered when I walked in. I lean forward, put my elbows on his desk, and look my brother in his eye.

Then I say what I came here to say.

“I need an army.”

Silence follows. Just my own brother looking back at me. His face so similar that it’s like staring into a mirror. I see the same cruelty in his eyes that I recognize in my own. The same stubbornness. The same arrogance.

But something else, too. Something darker. Something deeper.

Just a flash of it—then it’s gone. Like a creature disappearing under the surface of darkened waters.

And then he starts to laugh.

It’s a slow chuckle at first, barely audible. But soon it morphs into a full-on guffaw.

He leans back in his seat, chair wheezing, as he laughs until tears stream from his eyes. I sit coldly in place and watch as the fit finally passes through him.

“Oh, brother, of all the things I expected, that is not among them,” he says at last as he wipes the tears away.

“I appreciate the warm reception,” I drawl. “I’ll go.” I stand and start to head for the door.

“Don’t be such a drama queen!” Ilyasov grouses. “Come back, come back. Sit.”

I sigh, turn in place, and fix him with a wary glare. “It has been a long few days, brother. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here at all.”

“There you go again with the histrionics. I’m asking you out of brotherly love, Dima—won’t you just sit?”

I eye him for a moment longer before I relent and slump back into the chair across from his desk. Ilyasov is fishing around in one of his desk drawers. I hear the clink of glass and then he resurfaces with a bottle of premium vodka and a pair of tumblers.

He fills each of them and hands me one. “A toast,” he proposes. “To our beloved father. Who gave you what should have been mine.”

My grip on the glass tightens. For a moment, I wonder if it will shatter in my hand.

Ilyasov’s eyes are dancing with more laughter. And then there it is again—that flash of something else. That predator swimming in the ocean of his irises.

The silence stretches for one moment too long to be friendly before Ilyasov dials back the intensity and sips on his drink. But his eyes never leave mine for a second.

“An army,” he muses softly, almost to himself. “What for?”

I have a feeling he knowsexactlywhat for. But I’m in his territory. I have to play his games.

For now.

“A group of rebels in the Bratva are causing trouble for me. They’re working with the Albanians. They took control of the armory.”

Ilyasov stares at me for a long while, weighing my words and sipping on his vodka periodically until it’s drained. Then he stands up. “Come with me.”

I want to ask where we’re going, but I know he’s trying to assert his dominance. He’s changing the location of the meeting on the fly to keep me on my toes.

Acting uncomfortable would only give him what he wants. But fighting back won’t give me what I want.

Play his game, Dima,I counsel myself.For just a little bit longer.

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