Page 108 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

But there was no disappointment, because anyone who purchased the ten-thousand-dollar ticket to last night’s event was able to rub shoulders with the media mogul of media moguls: none other than the dashingly debonair Donald Hargrove.

This particular reporter came within a hair’s breadth of the man, and let me tell you, he smells as good as he looks.

Which is probably why it shocked quite a few to see him spend most of his evening with philanthropist and activist, Julia Makarova. As a woman of a certain age, one would think she would fly under Mr. Hargrove’s notoriously particular radar. But apparently, the man values personality as much as youth.

When pressed for information about his personal life, the silver fox played coy while Ms. Makarova just laughed me off. According to both, they’re just friends. Easier to believe than you might think. Especially with the legion of models and young actresses following the man around most of the night.

It’s true what they say: sometimes, God gives with both hands.

I glance up from the article. “This is trash.”

“A flaming dumpster fire,” Demyan agrees. “I can never understand why people lap this shit up.”

I scoff and fold the newspaper back over so I don’t have to look at Hargrove’s smug, polished smirk anymore. “My mother is an activist and philanthropist? Since when?”

“It’s not the craziest embellishment that’s ever been printed. We’ve donated to charities before.”

“The Bratva has donated to charities,” I point out. “I have donated to charities. It’s not her fucking money; it’s mine. For fuck’s sake, who is she even an activist on behalf of?”

“Women?” Demyan guesses. “The future is female and all that jazz.”

“I guess that does sound like her.”

“The ticket to go to this thing was ten grand,” he points out. “But I’m sure you already noticed that part.”

“Oh, I did. I’ll have words with her.”

“Don’t you keep a tight hold on her allowance?”

“I didn’t think it was necessary,” I mutter. “She had a hard enough time transferring everything back over to me when I returned from Russia. I didn’t want to monitor her spending on top of the rest of it. It seemed… degrading.”

“Look at you being a good son. Warms the heart.”

“Apparently, I’m going to have to stop now,” I growl, “if the woman is spending ten thousand dollars on a charity gala and drawing eyeballs we don’t need.”

“Hargrove approved,” Demyan says with a mocking waggle of the eyebrows. “Isn’t that enough for you?”

I flip the page back over and study the man in the picture once more. He is handsome, charismatic. But there’s a kind of remoteness behind his eyes. A blankness where a soul should be.

I don’t fucking like it.

“This has the potential to be dangerous,” I say.

“Oh, yeah,” Demyan answers firmly. “The man is big-time. He’s fine-tuned for gossip, always looking for the next big story. Even if the author of this article doesn’t know exactly who Yulia Makarova is, he certainly does.”

“You think she talked about me?”

“I’m sure she gushed about how handsome you are. Her precious baby Awweks.”

“Say that again and I’ll rip your tongue out,” I growl as Demyan cackles and scampers out of reach. “Any dirt on the bastard?”

“I only had time for a quick check,” Demyan says. He settles back into his seat. “But it came up clean as a whistle. Either he’s never done a dirty deed in his life, or they’re all hidden way out of sight. I mean, not that I’m speaking from experience or anything, but what kind of guy has an ex-wife who sings his praises to national media every chance she gets?”

“So he’s a saint, eh?”

“On paper, yeah. Sure looks that way.”

“Fignya,” I pronounce. Bullshit. “No one gets to be as rich and powerful as he is without collecting a few skeletons in his closet. I want to find them.”

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