Page 45 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“I know how men think, Aleksandr,” she says, unbothered by my irritation. “I know how men are. I don’t think keeping her close to you is the best idea.”

I lean forward and drop my voice to a low timbre. The kind that promises I mean business—or violence. “You think I can’t fucking handle myself, Mother? You really think I’m going to get distracted?”

“Men are weak that way,” she says, doubling down. Her eyes are iron. Unflinching.

“I’m not just any man.”

“I just don’t want your manhood to distract you.” She exhales deeply. “Throw the girl back to her brother and let him fumble on with the investigation. Unless you were careless, he’s not going to find anything. So why go through all this trouble?”

I narrow my eyes, wondering if I should even share this part with her. It’s not about trust in this case—it’s about the balance of power. More specifically, the power she lost when I took over as don of the Makarova Bratva.

“Do you know when the FBI started sniffing around?” I ask casually.

“No,” she says. “Should I?”

“Three years ago.”

Her brow creases. “How do you know that?”

“I have my sources. Reliable ones.”

“How can you be sure?” she asks.

I push myself to standing and walk around the desk. She’s a small woman, but with an audacity that far outweighs her. From time to time, she needs to be reminded of the order of things.

I sit on the edge of my desk and lean in towards her. “Because I’m the best there fucking is, Mother.”

She flushes, falling back against her chair.

I nod, satisfied. “Now, are you properly convinced or is this disappointment I’m seeing?”

She looks at me with wide eyes. “How can you ask me that question? I’m your mother.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I have always been proud of you,” she snaps. “I raised you to be the don you are now.”

“Then why won’t you let me do my goddamn job?” I ask. “I don’t need you second-guessing my decisions. I know what I’m doing.”

“It just doesn’t make sense—”

“Because you’re not privy to the same information I am,” I tell her. “Of course it doesn’t make sense to you.”

Her jaw snaps shut. I know I’ve hurt her. There’s a twinge of guilt, but it’s buried almost immediately by a cascade of justifications.

This was always my Bratva to take.

She was simply the placeholder.

“I see,” she says with a curt nod. “So none of my years behind that desk mean anything to you. After your father suffered his stroke, I was the one who picked up the pieces. I kept this Bratva floating for years—years!—before you were ready to take the reins.”

“You don’t need to repeat the story, Mother. I remember.”

“Do you?” she presses. “Because all I see is a boy who’s trying to shut out the woman who built the empire he’s now running.”

That does it. Ignites the fire.

“Let me make myself crystal fucking clear.” I lean forward further, trapping her between my forearms as I grip the sides of her chair. “You are my mother. My blood. And that is the only reason I’m not currently ripping your tongue out with my bare hands for talking to me like that.”

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