Arranged By The Bravta King

18

Mikhail

"Thank you, Dominika."

She nods toward me before leaving the room. But her stony gaze stays on the three brigadiers.

I look toward the spiral staircase; then I hear a door click shut. Maria is back in her room. Good, it's safer that we have the rest of this conversation in private. Without a word, I walk toward my office, and the brigadiers follow.

The room is less of an office and more of a lounge. A small chrome bar with select vintages, several low sofas and side tables in chocolate and beige, and a space for art. Many of my treasured pieces are here for me to view alone. Works by Picasso and Pollock not seen in public since the day they were created. I resent having the brigadiers invade my private abode, but it's obvious that Maria likes to listen.

And there are things she cannot be allowed to hear.

"There is no doubt, Mikhail Ivanov," Ippolit speaks, calm and calculating, before I can. "She is Budanov's daughter."

"How can you be certain?" I ask him as I get a grip on my anger.

"She has his eyes," Alexander interjects before Ippolit can talk. He picks up a vintage Merlot I was saving off the bar and examines the label. "I've known the man for many years, and I remember those eyes."

"Is that it?" I scoff in disbelief. "You would have me fake a marriage with this girl solely because of her eyes?"

"Not marry," Ippolit insists, sitting back on a couch. "Merely announce the engagement, and Budanov will reveal himself."

"I thought the three of you had a real plan," I snarl. "But it's clear that you're grasping at straws. This girl is not of the Bratva, I'm sure of it."

"But how are you so certain?" Alexander searches for a corkscrew in a drawer. "Have you questioned her extensively? Do you know anything about her father?"

"I—" I start to rebuff him, but the words catch in my throat. He's not wrong. Maria has been incredibly withdrawn about her father. If anything, she's told them more than she's told me.

Sensing his victory, Alexander presses his point. "Budanov was a secretive man," he says. "It's why his betrayal came so late. But I swear it, my pakhan. You will want him before you, begging for mercy." He pours a glass and takes a sip. "So that you may exact justice upon him for his crimes."

I grab a glass and Alexander dutifully pours for me. Sinking into my chair, I turn to him. "And what crimes are those?"

"Budanov has had a hand in so many things that happened in the last twenty years," Alexander replies. "Far more than what your father ever told you."

My blood runs cold at what he's insinuating. "What are you talking about?"

"Apologies, my pakhan," he replies quickly. "But for this ruse to work, you also have your part to play. If you know the specific crimes he has committed, then you risk tipping him off."

"Exactly," chimes Gunsyn in his deep, gravelly voice before I can respond. "Leave it to us, Mikhail Ivanov. We'll go make the rounds, get the word out. If she is Budanov's daughter, then he'll soon make his presence known to us. And once the threat is eliminated, she can leave, and you can marry a suitable wife. No one needs to know it was all fake."

It's obvious to me that Maria knows nothing. The way she was shaking, wrapped up in that bedsheet. She could barely speak and sat there shivering as if the room were made of ice. But I don't like this plan. I don't like being kept in the dark about things that I should know.

This burden should've been yours, Desmier, I think again bitterly. But would my dead brother have handled these four scheming men any better than I can?

"Fine," I concede, my voice heavy with resignation. "But I stand by what I said earlier. This girl is not yours to toy with. Understand?"

"Understood, boss." Gunsyn holds up his hands as if to ward me off and smirks.

"Good," I reply. "This better work."

"Of course, pakhan." Alexander pours me one final glass of wine. "You can trust us."

"Trust," I mutter, almost to myself. "That's a rare commodity these days."

"She has nothing to worry about from us." Ippolit's snake-like smile returns.

I know that's a lie.

After an impromptu toast and some meaningless reports, they file out of the penthouse, pleased with themselves. Alone, I sit down and stare hard at a blank wall.

Once the threat is eliminated, she can leave.

But a part of me doesn't want to let her go. I know the moment she slips from my protection, these brigadiers will descend upon her like vultures upon a dying gazelle. And they will show her no mercy.

I close my eyes, and my mind is filled with an image of Maria wrapped up in that sheet. Her curves under the thin fabric, her hair resting on her bare shoulders. Her big, innocent eyes pleading for me to save her from the three brigadiers snapping at her heels like the heads of Cerberus.

And if you save her from them, little brother, Desmier's voice whispers at the back of my head. Do you imagine that you will keep her?

No, I reply honestly as I stare into my glass at the tears of wine dancing atop the dark liquid. Once she is free, she will be like the subjects of the paintings that I admire on museum walls.

And just like those treasured masterpieces, I cannot have her.

I can only ever admire her from a distance.

Destined forever to be seen and never held.