Fractured Ties by Bethany-Kris Page 0,6
bulbs hanging overhead kept the room just dim enough that someone might be able to pretend they were somewhere else.
With a flick of his wrist in the direction of the pool tables, he sent Konstantin and Kaz off to be on their own. Harmless in their corner as they shot the shit or played a bit of billiards. Kolya knew at least ninety-five percent of his brother’s attention would be on him, and he’d be ready to step in when needed.
Regardless of whether Konstantin was pissed off or not.
Some shit never changed.
Kolya found the man of the hour—probably his last hour, too—sitting at the far end of the bar talking to another man he recognized. Anatoly and Ivan were what looked to be three-quarters of the way deep into a bottle of vodka, and a discussion they didn’t want other people overhearing.
One in Russian, too.
Kolya kept his footsteps light as he approached.
“And what do you plan to do with that fucking thing?” Anatoly asked. “You can’t keep it here, comrade.”
“Can’t get rid of it, either,” Ivan muttered, his Russian slurred a bit from his drink. “Do you know how much money it brings when we take it out of the cage? I’d be fucking stupid to—”
“You recognize then when you’re being stupid, no?” Kolya asked, sliding into the stool beside Ivan’s. “Hard to believe, all things considered.”
The man swung around on his stool to face Kolya with a drunken gaze. At the same time, Kolya waved two fingers over his shoulder for whoever was down the bar to bring him a drink. Or come take a fucking order for one.
Behind Ivan, Anatoly gave a subtle nod.
“Kolya,” Ivan greeted, “since when do you make your way to my part of town?”
“Since tonight.” Kolya drummed his leather-clad fingertips to the worn bar and gave Ivan a look from the side. “Seems I’m needed down this way, unfortunately.”
“Thought you weren’t the type to—”
“Could I get you something?”
Kolya stiffened.
That voice.
Soft, and sweet, yet bubbly and friendly.
Not at all what he expected to greet him when the bartender made his—no, shit, apparently her—way down to serve him. It was something about the fact there was a woman here … a woman with the softest, sweetest tone he had ever heard … that made him hesitate.
And tense.
A knot of stress pulled his shoulder blades together.
Still, he looked at the woman.
Pixie-like in her features, the top of her head would barely reach his chest. He could probably use her fucking head as an arm rest when he was standing beside her. Her tiny button nose accentuated the rest of her dainty features. She had small lips, pink and uncolored by makeup or stain, that smiled even though he found hesitance and uncertainty in her blue eyes.
And blue.
Damn, so blue.
Like the ocean right before a storm.
Or a sky on a cloudless summer day.
But her hair was pin-straight hanging over her shoulders, and jet-black.
Like the darkest night.
Like tar.
Like his soul.
She wasn’t particularly dressed up, but she wasn’t dressed down in her outfit, either. Simple straight-leg, tight jeans and a bohemian-style blouse. It told him she had dressed to look appropriate, but not draw attention.
He didn’t blame her.
The only attention a woman like her—delicate, beautiful, and sweet-looking—might find here was the bad kind.
Kind of like him.
Because, yeah, Kolya noticed her.
Something he didn’t do.
“Maya, stop standing there,” Ivan barked, drawing Kolya’s attention away from the woman, “and make yourself useful, yes? Go do anything else but be near me.”
“Sorry,” the woman—Maya—whispered.
Quickly, she scurried off.
“I wanted a drink,” Kolya groused, shooting Ivan a glare.
Really, he just wanted Maya to come back.
So he could tell her to run.
Ivan waved a hand and didn’t even realize with that action and his next words, he just made Kolya’s hesitance to kill him with a woman near null and void altogether. “The cunt will come back—my daughter doesn’t know how to listen. It’s why she belongs in the den with the rest of the mutts.”
Oh, yeah.
And the fact that Maya was the man’s daughter just made it worse, too.
Beyond fucking dead.
Kolya’s favorite knife—a black obsidian blade his brother had given to him when he turned sixteen—was pulled from the sheath at his ankle in his next breath and sliding along Ivan’s throat before the man could protest, or blink.
“You asked the wrong questions, suka,” Kolya murmured, reverting back to the familiar feeling of numbness and nothingness. “You should have asked why I came here first, and then I could have let you beg for a bit.