Page 153 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“That’s what I pay you for.”

“Apparently, he and Melissa are having a little… thing.”

“Jesus,” I grimace. “That is not what I pay him for.”

“So then fire the horny devil.”

“I would love to. Except he’s the only one that gets along with my father,” I say. “So he’s staying.”

“Fire Melissa, then?”

I throw my hands up in the air. “It’s not worth the breath it would take to do it. What they do is their business, anyway. I don’t give a shit—as long as their drama doesn’t bleed into the work. Which it is right now.”

“Technically, your father’s being taken care of at the moment.”

“I don’t need the two of them talking.”

“Why not?” Demyan asks, genuinely curious.

I glare at him. “It’s too close. She doesn’t need to ingratiate herself into my household. She’s not really my wife, after all.”

“Not until you fuck her within the sanctity of your marriage vows, she’s not.”

“Vows?” I snort. “Those vows are worthless. My vows are written in fucking blood.”

“Oh, how romantic!” Demyan claps his hands with sarcastic fake glee like a schoolgirl. “Tell Olivia that—she’ll love it.”

I shove him away from me and start down the stone steps towards the lake edge. I’ve had more than my dose of Demyan for the day.

“Hey, what are you gonna do?” he shouts out after me.

I don’t bother to answer. I just keep going until I reach the lake.

Neither one of them notices me until I’m right on top of them. Of course, Father doesn’t move, but his eyes land on me instantly.

Olivia tenses, but she stays in her spot.

“Where the fuck is Mike?” I snarl.

“He… he went to the bathroom,” she stammers. “But, um… that was a while ago now.”

“Go get him,” I order her. “Now.”

Her eyes narrow immediately as she slowly gets to her feet. “I’m busy, actually. And also, you don’t have the right to boss me around. I’m not your servant.”

I’ve learned to read my father’s expressions over the years since his stroke. I’ve learned to read his body language, too. It may be subtle—practically nonexistent to the untrained eye—but when you spend enough time with someone, you start to develop other languages.

And right now, he’s amused.

“You’re right about that. You’re not my servant. You’re my property.”

“Excuse me?” she spits. Her eyes are aflame, fists clenched, cheeks scarlet with anger.

“You will—”

Before I can finish my sentence, I hear Mike running down the path towards us. He’s nervous, but he’s trying to be casual about it, slowing to a walk and sticking his hands in his pocket as he approaches.

“Hey, everyone—wow, it turned into a party out here! Sorry, I—”

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