Arranged By The Bravta King

21

Mikhail.

I trudge into the living room, bleary-eyed from a restless night. My sister Larissa is already here, standing in front of a window, looking out. She's not interested in art, but she pretends to humor me as she's always done since I was a little boy. Upon hearing my footsteps behind her, she glides toward me, smiling her sad smile, and fixes my collar and tie. She smooths my hair with a maternal flourish, reminding me she comes before me in the birth order.

"My dear Kolya." She sits on the edge of the couch with her chin held high. "A pakhan in name, but still the little boy whose hair I used to muss."

I can feel the weight of everything she doesn't say. Sighing, I remain on my feet and wonder how much Rurik has told her.

"You're here early," I say. "What's on your mind?"

"What else?" She spreads her hands like Rurik. And I wonder who was the first to use the gesture in their marriage. "Them."

Nothing else needs to be said. Since we were children, we have only ever referred to the three brigadiers as "them."

"I have things under control, Lara," I tell her. "They will bend. They must."

"So you say," she concedes reluctantly. "But even Father depended on them. And you are not Father."

"As everyone seems so fond of reminding me." My tone is more bitter than I like.

If she perceives insult, she does not show it. Decades of living under our father's oppressive hands have taught her to keep her emotions close to her heart.

"They remain loyal to themselves," she says. "And their insatiable lust for power. If there's any chance that they will benefit, they will turn against you."

Her dark eyes are sharp, and her lips are set in a determined line. Larissa has commanded respect from the cradle. She would've made a brilliant pakhan, and I've considered bringing her into the Bratva on the day of my coronation, but I know she will never accept the offer. For better or for worse, she cares nothing for the Bratva unless it impacts her dear Rurik or me.

"They're a necessary evil," I sigh, my brow furrowing in frustration. "And peace must be kept. I cannot simply replace them."

Larissa studies me intently. "Then you need to start cultivating loyalty among others without them realizing. That's the only way you'll ensure your safety and success."

"Like your husband?" I ask brusquely, my gaze searching for any sign of agreement or disagreement in Larissa's face.

A flicker of emotion passes through her eyes, and I can sense the weight of my question pressing down on her.

"I would prefer that you do not lay such burdens upon Rurik's shoulders." Her voice trembles slightly. "He will never disobey you. So, it is up to me to talk sense into his pakhan."

"Your frankness means more to me than you realize." I smile. "So, who would the wise Larissa Gennadyevna choose?"

She looks around to make sure we are alone. "Pavel, Anton, or Pyotr." Her hand reaches for my collar and gives it a hard yank, popping my shirt open to reveal the tattooed stars on my shoulder—the symbols of authority. "The men who knelt with you when you received those. They are men that you can trust."

I frown. "It's not only my back that needs to be covered." I leave the rest unsaid, and she knows how to read between the lines.

She steps back and sits down on the couch, maintaining her imposing presence as her posture remains straight and regal. With her head held high and her dark hair cascading down her back, she outshines the Picasso hanging near her.

"I'm aware." She nods, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and looks around. "Have you ever thought of selling this place? It does no good to live in a house filled with ghosts. You're to be married soon. It is neblagopriyatno. Ill-omened."

"You know I cannot." I shake my head. "This is where I've always belonged."

"I was afraid you might say that." Larissa looks down, sighing.

My gaze falls on a distant Pollock. The drips of paint masterfully form a landscape. Each drop splatters against the canvas like a thousand tiny explosions, creating a landscape of rhyme and reason few can see.

There was a time in my life when I didn't ever want to set foot in the penthouse. But as painful as this place is, I cannot bear to part with it. I keep finding myself drawn back here, terrified and exhilarated by the presence of everything it embodies.

A member of the staff appears with a tray of cold drinks and Larissa takes one into her hand. "When will I meet her?"

I sigh as I grab one as well. "Soon, when it is appropriate."

"Word of your engagement has already gone to the wind," she says. "Why are you hiding her from me?"

"I cannot tell you that, Lara."

"This girl." She ignores my words while she helps herself to a lemon wedge from a plate. "Is she your choice? Or theirs?"

"Mine," I lie firmly, shocked at how easy that is.

Larissa looks at me pointedly and makes a small sound of disbelief, but otherwise remains silent as she picks my brain with her gaze. When she gets no reaction from me, she closes her eyes and sighs.

"Promise me one thing, Kolya," Larissa says, her voice firm with conviction. "No matter what happens, remember that family comes first. And God knows this family has lost enough. Don't make me lose you too."

"I've said the words, Lara."

"You care for no one but the Bratva, and you shall love none other than the Bratva." She repeats those same accursed words to herself. "Rurik said them too. Yet he still makes time for me. He still has room in his heart for love." Sadness passes over her face and she sets her drink down. "Each day, you become less and less like the Kolya I remember. And more like ..." she looks away, blinking back the tears. "Him."

"Who?" I ask. "Father?"

"No." she shakes her head. "Desmier."

"He's gone because of me, Lara," I whisper, the pang of guilt crushing my lungs like a vise. Just like Mother, I think bitterly, but dare not say those words to Larissa.

But the look she gives me tells me that she knows. She knows me too well for me to keep my thoughts a secret from her.

"You can't change the past," she reminds me as she takes my hand like she did when we were still children. "And you don't need our brother's ghost to haunt you anymore."

"No," I agree. "I don't."

But she's wrong.

It's not Desmier's ghost that haunts me.

It's all the rest.