Page 107 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

ALEKS

“Have you seen this shit?”

Demyan storms into my office with a newspaper in hand. He shakes it before slamming it down on the table in front of me.

“The society section?” I scoff. “You really do have too much time on your hands, Dem.”

He isn’t in a joking mood, though. “Look at the third page. Bottom left.”

Frowning, I glance down and see what Demyan is talking about, and instantly, my mood gets as foul as his.

My mother takes up one entire picture all by herself. She’s looking straight at the camera with a high-society sneer on her face. There’s no doubt that she knew she was being photographed. She owns the spotlight in a way I’m not quite expecting.

My eyes slide to the next photo in the array. This one includes my mother again.

But this time, she’s not alone.

Her gaze is focused on a tall, silver-haired man at her side. He’s laughing, his head thrown back with ease. Her hand rests casually on his arm.

“Who is this fucker?” I grit out.

“You’re joking, right?” Demyan asks. “You don’t recognize him?”

I peer closer at the man. He’s tall. Distinguished. Older, but he’s aged well, in the kind of way that only lots of money can buy.

Then it hits me.

“Donald Hargrove.”

Demyan smiles and nods. “The one and only. Son of a bitch looks like he just stepped out of a fuckin’ Brooks Brothers ad.”

“Remind me—some kind of media enterprise, right?”

“Television mogul,” Demyan corrects. “Owns the news network you see in every goddamn waiting room in the whole goddamn country.”

“What do we know about him?” I ask. “Apart from the obvious.”

Demyan rattles off the facts on his fingers. “He’s been married once before. Divorced now, for a couple of years, I believe. Apparently, the ex-wife still speaks highly of him.”

“How big was her settlement?”

“Big enough to buy France.”

“That explains that, then,” I say dismissively. “Kids?”

“Two,” Demyan says. “A pair of pretty boys in their twenties who are both modeling for European luxury brands. Social media follower counts like you wouldn’t believe.”

I roll my eyes. “Jesus. Stop before I puke.”

“You wanna read the article?”

“Blyat’. I suppose I should.”

I skim through the article until I stumble across my mother’s name. “Julia Makarova” is what they wrote, not “Yulia.” Leave it to Americans to make everything about their way of doing things. Somehow, that makes me feel slightly better about the whole debacle.

A quick passthrough of the first paragraph makes me turn up my nose. The piece reeks of cheap gossip and shallow humor.

The Svenson-Met Gala is the crown jewel of the city’s social calendar. In attendance was a who’s who of comedy legends, full-blown rock stars, and Oscar-nominated actors. (Apparently, the actual Oscar winners had a fancier charity to attend. Cancer is so last season.)

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