Fractured Ties by Bethany-Kris Page 0,1
ass up for Papa in the middle of the night, Konstantin? Because I do not.”
“Funny,” Konstantin returned, “because Anatoly says the same thing about you.”
Yeah, well …
Kolya didn’t even bother to respond to that statement, instead he picked up the pace to leave his place. His shitty little apartment in the Heights wasn’t much to look at, but it was good enough for him at the moment. It was close to his work, and easy access to everything else. A shitty part of the city, sure, but who the fuck was going to mess with a Boykov in Chicago?
They owned this fucking city.
The Boykov Bratva was well-known in the city. Most idiots just referred to them as the Russian mafia, but he attributed that ignorance to the fact that the inner workings of the Bratva and their customs weren’t exactly public consumption.
People knew to leave them the fuck alone and stay the hell away. Which was exactly what Kolya enjoyed most about being who he was. He didn’t like others, in general—he couldn’t even pretend to try on most days. His disposition and last name afforded him the sanctuary of people keeping their distance, which meant he rarely needed to bother with anyone else at all.
That was enough for Kolya.
Unless, of course, it was his father.
Because he was Vadim.
That was really all Kolya needed to say.
“You need to upgrade from this apartment,” Konstantin said, glancing around Kolya’s darkened bedroom. “Live up to the standards of your name, no?”
Kolya rolled his eyes and ground his teeth together as he pulled out appropriate clothing for a meeting with his father. No stupid fuck thought to meet Vadim in anything less than a suit, or black clothes that could pass as dressier wear. “Don’t take cheap shots at my place, suka. Not all of us need to live in a mansion on the hills,”
“I don’t live in a fucking mansion on the hills.”
“Yet,” Kolya returned.
He was looking at a house in Melrose Park, but buying something like that meant his sister, Viktoria, would probably want to have a housewarming party. And a party for a Boykov meant his father would be invited, and other people.
Not Kolya’s thing.
At all.
Kolya had already thrown on the black slacks and he left the black dress shirt unbuttoned when he passed by Konstantin on the way out the door. He’d button it up in the car because he had already wasted enough time. Vadim would be worked up enough as it was, without Kolya adding to it.
“You should have splashed some water on your face,” Konstantin said. “Showered, yeah? You smell like you bathed in cheap vod—”
He punched his brother hard in the arm, a silent warning for Konstantin to back the fuck off before he got Kolya worked up.
Konstantin bared his teeth. “Mudak.”
Kolya laughed darkly as he headed down the dimly lit hallway with his brother on his heels. “Ouch, that hurts my soul.”
“Nothing hurts you,” Konstantin said when he moved ahead of Kolya to grab the door for him, “I don’t think you even have a fucking soul to hurt.”
“Nyet. I have a soul—I just don’t own it anymore.”
Kolya tossed the keys for his Hummer to Konstantin over his shoulder without even looking back. He heard Konstantin catch the keys, and smirked. Sure, he ribbed his brother a lot, and the two were at each other’s throats more often than they weren’t.
But at the end of the day?
At the end of every single day?
Konstantin was still a Boykov. He was still Kolya’s brother, and Vadim hadn’t beaten enough lessons into his oldest son yet to make him forget it, either.
It meant something to Kolya.
At least for now.
“You drive,” Kolya called. “I’m not legal, brat.”
At least he was walking straight, though. That had to count for something. Maybe by the time they made it across the city to where Vadim was waiting with whatever fresh hell he was ready to lay at their feet, he wouldn’t look like he just woke up from a night-long bender.
Unlikely.
One could still hope.
Konstantin made a noise in the back of his throat. “Begging for Vadim to throw a fit, Kolya.”
Maybe he was.
Maybe he fucking was.
• • •
If there was anything Vadim Boykov loved more than money, and pliable, compliant men in the business of the Bratva, it was his theatrics. Sometimes, those theatrics came in the forms of lessons he liked to teach his men, and other times, they manifested in nothing more than Vadim showing off in a variety of