Page 109 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

Demyan frowns. “Is there a reason we need to poke around? Seems… risky.”

“If he learns more about me and the Bratva than I’m comfortable with, I need to have some sort of leverage over the man.”

He shrugs. “Aye-aye, captain. Fair enough. I’ll keep digging.” He leans back in his seat and strokes his chin, humming out loud the way he always does when he’s thinking and wants to get on my nerves. “You know, if Yulia’s spending habits are bothering you, you could always cut her off.”

“Feels harsh.”

Demyan laughs in my face. “You’ve done worse.”

I wave him away. “I can handle her. She just needs to be reminded that I’m don now and she has to listen.”

“Hardcore, man. I can’t imagine giving my mother orders.”

“That’s why you’re in that seat and I’m in this one.” I fold up the paper and toss it in the trash. “Why couldn’t she have made friends with some boring civilian fuck, huh? A middle manager, an accountant. Someone with a mortgage and a home in the suburbs and a dog to walk in the evenings.”

“Because she’d be bored to death,” Demyan answers. “She’s chasing excitement. That’s the only reason she chooses to be around these egotistical, pretentious fuckers.”

“Or maybe she’s found kindred spirits.”

He whistles. “That’s a low opinion you have of your own mother.”

I sigh and relent. “She held her own when she was left in charge. She made mistakes, but considering she had no training and no experience, she did what she could. It’s just her belief that she has a God-given right to certain things that frustrates me.”

“Or maybe the two of you are so alike that you just can’t get along with one another?”

“Is this a session for strategy or for therapy?” I snarl. “Spare me the psychoanalysis.”

Demyan only chuckles. Then he fixes me with a careful expression. “You been by to see the old man recently?” he asks—even though he knows exactly how I feel about it.

“No.”

“I did,” he admits.

I roll my eyes. “You’re a fucking prince.”

He shrugs. “One day, we’re going to be that old. Maybe even that helpless, too.”

“I will never be like that,” I say fiercely. “And if that somehow becomes a possibility, I’ll put a bullet in my brain long before my body turns on me.”

Demyan looks unconvinced. “Not sure you can get away with that anymore.”

I frown. “And why is that?”

“Well, you’ve got a wife now,” Demyan points out, fixing me with a teasing smile.

“She’s not a wife,” I snap back. “She’s a tool. A prop.”

“A very pretty prop, though, you gotta admit.”

I shrug. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, please,” Demyan scoffs. “Don’t lie. Don’t pretend like you don’t see it.”

“I don’t see anything I don’t need to see.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ve seen: I’ve seen the way you look at her, sobrat. And you don’t look at your screwdriver like that. So, tool or no tool, she’s different.”

That pisses me off and he knows it. I turn my steely gaze on him, but he only shrugs. After a lifetime at my side, my anger no longer fazes him. It never truly did.

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