Page 37 of Bratva Queen

Stepan was hosting his and Isabel’s engagement party this evening.

We’d made the move back to the big, sparkling city a few weeks ago with Isabel at Stepan’s side and a huge, blinding diamond on her finger. She seemed to be embracing the lifestyle, at least. There were some perks to the bratva way of living.

We’d recently flown her mama over from Belarus to help plan and prepare for the party, and she was constantly alight with pride and awe. I’d heard the discussions and done the chauffeuring when Isabel took her mom out shopping to buy dresses, shoes, and jewelry for the evening. Even though I kept my distance, it was clear that her mom didn’t want to accept all the “free” gifts, but once Isabel convinced her that the party would be a prestigious one, with a lot of Stepan’s business associates, she accepted and allowed herself to feel beautiful—for the first time, I wondered—in a floor-length black evening gown, with sleeves that came to a point over the backs of her hands and accentuated the few rings she donned.

Isabel, on the other hand, just about took my breath away when she descended the stairs in an elegant emerald-green dress. It complimented the hues of her milky skin and dark eyes. Brought in at the waist by a string of crystals that loosely resembled a rosary, the dress accentuated her lustrous hips and cut off at her knees and elbows. The neckline was low, though not in a promiscuous way but more of a respectable, sophisticated cut.

Stepan walked with her on his arm all evening, showing her off, introducing her to everyone that had anything to do with the bratva. There were other bratva families there too, the Sorokins for example, who’d always been allies of Stepan’s father.

Another was Dima himself. I’d met him of course, back in Belarus, right before Stepan was shot in the shoulder during a measly misunderstanding that caused Stepan’s men to start shooting and Dima’s to retaliate. It all turned out well, obviously, making Stepan trust him more. A man who was too eager to impress wasn’t to be trusted—Stepan insisted—but one who could afford to lose you was one worth keeping around.

Right. Solid business logic.

I just didn’t feel great about Dima. He was around my age, built well enough, and had tattoos up his neck, certainly a bratva standard of man. He held an air of guarded apprehensiveness. It was exactly what Stepan trusted about him, that I did not. I felt he had too many secrets behind those calculating eyes.

He seemed well-behaved tonight, smiling charmingly and greeting Isabel with just a little too much flirtation in his touchy hands. Stepan didn’t mind. Of course, I did.

I couldn’t help but think that, even if Isabel were to get out of this now, everyone who was anyone in Russia already knew her face. This was a downhill situation, a snowball already set in motion, which could only ever end in disaster.

“You’ve been awfully scarce this evening,” Isabel murmured, sidling up to me with her champagne flute between her delicate fingers. She stood shoulder to shoulder with me, facing the crowd and smiling or nodding at anyone who looked her way.

“That’s my job, is it not?” I said calmly. Just because we couldn’t physically be together didn’t mean we couldn’t be friendly, or at least, cordial.

“Actually no,” she chuckled. “You promised you’d always be around.”

I tried to hide my smirk. “Oh I am, but as I also mentioned, I’d be in the shadows.” I turned to look at her finally, making eye contact before looking down at her glass and raising a brow. I knew she wasn’t a fan of drinking.

She tipped her head to the side in a show of self-respect. “No one even notices that this is still my first glass, I just chuck a little into the potted plants whenever I pass them.”

I looked ahead again, nodding as I spoke under my breath, just enough for her to hear. “That’s my girl.”

She smiled and spotted her mother sitting alone on a lush antique loveseat to the side of the room, looking hazy with happiness, resting her own glass of champagne on her knee.

“I’ll see you in the shadows, Alek,” Isabel said, then walked over to her mother, joined her, and seemed to have a warm, loving conversation.

Later in the evening, once Isabel had gotten her tired mom to bed and disappeared to “shower and slip into bed”—God, why did I have to imagine it—Stepan jerked his head toward his office, signaling me to join as he led a few associates there for nightcaps and cigars.

The home office was substantially large, but cozy in that manly, dark-stained-wood way. Since it wasn’t even Stepan’s father who’d built this house but his grandfather—it held a lot of antique style, with only minor renovations done over the years. The family was a traditional one.

“Join me,priyateli! Cigars are on the table, drinks here at the bar cart,” Stepan said as he began tipping whiskey into a cluster of crystal tumblers. I took my place in the corner of the room. In these casual situations, Stepan didn’t expect me to stand to the side like a statue with my hand on my gun, but rather kick back in an armchair and just keep an eye out.

One of his VIPs of the evening was Yevgeniy Sorokin, who was around Stepan’s age of late 30s and who’d recently taken over the throne of the Sorokin bratva organization while his father, the previous “king,” was practically on his deathbed.

The men were equal in status, but their difference in power lay in their territory, their men, their businesses, and even their stature in the community. At least tonight, they were friendly.

“Yev, my friend,” Stepan approached him while other associates ambled around the room, lighting cigars and beginning their own conversations, “let’s catch up, get to know one another better! We are practically brothers now, aren’t we?” He laughed, too loudly. The whiskey had gotten to him.

“Aleksei Chernoff,” I heard beside me. It was Dima, he stood next to my chair, his back straight and his hands in his pants pockets. I didn’t stand up. Some might consider the importance of eye-level, of being physically higher than the other, but in this situation, it would have been “respectful” toward him to stand up, so I remained seated—holding my own power by showing an air of calm.

“Dima, how are you?”

“Great, thank you. Now let’s cut the chit chat.”

I smiled. “Please do.”

“I know you don’t trust me. I can see that. But,” he turned to face me, dropping his head to look down at me while I tipped mine to the side, looking up entirely unperturbed. “I can also see that Stepan holds a lot of respect for you and values your opinions.”

I kept watching him without replying.

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