the Bratva could never touch me again.
“What do you want?” Vasily demanded, darting up from his leather seat. “You obviously came here for retaliation, so just spit it out. And no, my daughter cannot be a part of the deal. She is an innocent. We have a code,” he growled.
“You have a code,” I corrected. “I lack morals and fucks. So it is either my way or the highway, and considering you were very close to sending me to an early grave, you better take my terms, no stipulations and no negotiations.”
“Speak!” Vasily slapped a hand over his desk, seething. “And put her down, for God’s sake!”
“I’ll give you back Brookline, but you will hand me monthly protection money. A percentage of all your businesses,” I said flatly.
Vasily’s eyes narrowed.
“Protection from what? We are the Bratva! We protect ourselves.”
“Hey, I never promised to make sense.” I shrugged, and Masha moaned against my shoulder, weeping through the cloth covering her mouth. “But right now, I have soldiers everywhere in your territory. I am making more money than you ever did here. If you want me to retreat, you need to make it worth my while.”
Vasily stroked his chin, considering my proposition. His men were ready for battle—I could tell by the way their muscles bunched under their shirts.
“Have you touched her?” he asked, his Russian accent thickly coating each word with worry.
“No,” I said honestly. “I require my women to be willing and conscious.”
I also prefer them to be just one woman—Aisling. I still couldn’t believe she made me go through with this. Give up such a strategic part of Boston. Love was a bitch, but it was something I had to endure in order to keep Nix.
“Put her down,” Vasily repeated, his voice shaking slightly. In all the time I’d known him, Vasily Mikhailov’s voice had never wavered. He was scared.
“Concede,” I hissed.
He lowered his head, so close to defeat the despair was tangible in the air.
“What’s your protection rate?”
“Eight percent of all your businesses’ clean profit.”
“Six,” he clipped, jotting down something on a piece of paper resting on his desk, already making the calculation.
“Eight. Love is priceless, Mikhailov,” I reminded him.
He looked up. “Fine. Now put her down.”
I put Masha on the floor. She flailed, her eyes erratically looking for her father among the shadows of people in the room. Vasily ran to her, crouching down and removing a knife from his Italian loafers. He began tearing the ropes that tied her together, whispering Russian endearments in her ear, his face contorted with emotion.
Troy put a hand on my shoulder.
“Time to go, son.”
“All right, Dad.”
It was the first time I called him Dad, but I knew it was not going to be the last.
I turned around and followed him, feeling him smiling, even with his back to me.
For the first time since I was born, I felt something foreign and addictive.
I belonged.
“Just for the record, I will never forgive you.” My mother scooped her Hermes bag from the chapel’s floor, her heels clicking provocatively as she sashayed outside.
My father stood behind her, shrugging helplessly, a what-can-you-do expression on his face. Troy and Sparrow were behind them, gathering their belongings.
“She can and will forgive you. Dinner is at eight. Please don’t be late.” He kissed both my cheeks, giving Sam, who stood by my side, a firm handshake.
Belle was the next person to slide out of her pew.
“I can’t believe you.” She bristled in delight, clutching my arms, shaking me a little. “You actually went ahead with it.”
“A Vegas wedding.” Persephone slid from the same pew, Cillian standing right next to her. Persy held her tummy, in which my next nephew or niece was cooking quite nicely. “Who would have thought?”
“I would,” Sam cut harshly through everyone’s coos and murmurs. “Seeing as Aisling wasn’t the only person to get married today. Besides, it was a classy Vegas wedding.”
“That’s an oxymoron,” Cillian pointed out.
“No, he is right. It was totally classy.” Sailor’s face popped out of nowhere. Hunter stood close to her. “Nothing says elegance quite like being married by Elvis himself while a bunch of aging men dressed like *NSync sing a botched karaoke version of ‘It’s Gonna Be Me’ in the background. Isn’t that what Prince William and Kate did for their wedding?” Sailor frowned, curling her fingers under her chin thoughtfully.
“I do believe Wills and Kate had Take That wannabes singing ‘Relight my Fire’ at the reception,” Devon interrupted, clearing his throat. The British man seemed so out