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Right now, I could almost feel bad for using Viktor if I didn’t hate the entire Sakharov clan with every fiber of my being.
“What makes you think we need another fighter on the payroll? I already have you starting fights all over town.” Sergio scowls. “And that’s costing me an arm and a leg to keep you out of jail.”
“But what if you could hire someone to have my back and stop the trouble before it begins?” Viktor reasons. “Otets, give Mishka a chance to prove himself. I promise you won’t be disappointed. I’ve seen plenty of men fight, and I assure you, no one fights like this guy.”
My shoulders lock instinctually as Viktor’s palm claps me on the back in a brotherly display. And though my body immediately wants to drop into a defensive stance, I know I can’t show my tension. I can’t give Sergio any reason to think I’m nervous.
And despite my complete lack of concern for self-preservation at this point, I am stressed.
Because I refuse to die until I kill Sergio Sakharov.
“Very well. Mishka, you can work with Viktor providing my son extra protection until you’ve proven trustworthy. Then we’ll see if you’re truly cut out for the Bratva lifestyle.”
You have no idea.
“Thank you, Gospodin,” I state, giving a slight bend at the hips to show my appreciation. And all the while, my teeth grit as I fight my distaste. I hate the need for lies and deception. All I want to do is launch myself across the statement-piece desk and choke the life from my new employer.
But patience is the only way I’m going to succeed in my plot for revenge.
Patience and a world of dishonesty.
Sergio gives one curt nod, a silent dismissal, and Viktor leads me from the room.
Viktor closes the door behind us, and as soon as we’re alone, he slings an arm around my shoulders. “That’s about as good as it gets when it comes to my father’s stamp of approval. Normally, he’ll have a guy jumping through hoops for at least six months before he’ll even consider offering someone a position.”
Prick. Why does that not surprise me?
Not that my Bratva was any different, really. The initiation process into the Nezhit brotherhood took my brother and me nearly a year to complete, and it was brutal. But we had also been little more than boys then. Entirely untested, when it really came down to it. Sure, our father sent us through hell and back, but nothing had prepared me for the world Sascha and I entered in order to survive.
“You want a drink?” Viktor offers. “I’m buying.”
It’s barely three in the afternoon, but seeing as my new job is to keep the Sakharov heir safe, I don’t see that I have much choice in the matter. And it was Viktor who got me an audience with Sergio—a feat I’ve been attempting for months now.
“Absolutely,” I state, allowing him to steer me back through the massive entryway and toward their front door.
And though she has no reason to enter my head, I can’t stop myself from glancing around to see if Viktor’s younger sister is still around. Alina. Her name is as captivating as her face, and I can’t stop the sinking feeling in my gut when she’s nowhere to be found.
I shouldn’t want her.
I can’t.
But I also can’t deny the girl’s attractive.
Long, wavy blonde hair, seafoam blue eyes, and curves that make me wonder just who blessed her with a body like that. Alina’s a stunner. Which is why I need to keep my head in the game. No distractions.
And yet, as we step out into the muggy late-summer day, my eyes find her as if drawn toward a beacon of light. Her laughter trickles to me like a melody carried on a soft breeze as she launches a ball with impressive athleticism. A furry black-and-white blur races away after it—the reason for Alina’s amusement.
When I finally tear my eyes away from the sun-kissed beauty, I find Viktor watching me closely.
“I like you, Mishka, so I’ll give you some free advice. Stay away from my sister. That’s a sure way to not just lose favor but also to likely get yourself killed.”
3
ALINA
“Please, Papachka, I’m turning twenty-one,” I plead. “Can’t you just let me have one night at the club? Viktor gets to go all the time.”
“I hardly think using your brother as an example is going to help persuade me,” my father states dryly, his thick eyebrow raising as he watches me across the breakfast table.
