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“To Denis!”
Another round of howling and stomping. The clink of glasses forms a melody that chimes just beneath the cacophony of noise.
“To Daniil!”
This time, the cries are led by Aleks, who rises shakily to his feet and roars louder than all the rest, stomping his foot into the ground. He’s well past drunk at this point, but I’m not about to rein him in. This is the way death is meant to be grieved—with alcohol and cheers and stories about those who’ve passed.
Bratva men don’t go quietly into the night.
I stand removed from all the ceremony, stone-cold sober and watchful of every man in the room. I’m certain of their loyalty. Every person here has been vetted and cleared and proven a thousand times over.
These soldiers are the ones who will deliver me my victory. I just need to figure out how.
Because the truth is, no matter how confidently I reassured Aleks, he was right: we are outnumbered. Which means that being smart isn’t just one of many choices; it’s my only choice.
Pavel walks over and offers me a glass of vodka. I accept it, just as I’d accepted every other glass I’ve been handed. But I don’t drink it. I just let it sit. I smell it.
I won’t drink until we win. Until every threat to my family and empire has been extinguished.
“… Okay, okay, settle down, men. I have a story about Daniil,” Aleks calls out as he sits on the table and nearly tips over one of the half-empty bottles of vodka. “Fuck,” he mutters absentmindedly, “where was I? Oh, right. Daniil?—”
“Daniil!” the men cry, all piss-drunk and bloodthirsty.
“It was his first day in the field…”
With the men’s attention focused on my brother, I put down the glass and slip out of the building. No one notices and I doubt they will anytime soon.
It’s almost two in the morning; Wren will probably be anxious about where I am. I’m hoping she’ll be sleeping when I get to the penthouse—but not only is her bed empty, the light is on in the nursery.
I sneak inside and find her seated on the carpet, surrounded by a pile of new baby clothes.
Well, to say the clothes are “new” is debatable. They’re certainly unused, though. And obviously homemade. From what I can tell, Rose wasn’t the best knitter. But she liked color and there’s heart and warmth in all the things she’d made for her unborn children. I see her love in every stitch.
I sink down onto the carpet next to Wren and run the back of my hand against her face. She sighs deeply and falls back against my chest, allowing me to see the dry tear tracks carved down her cheeks. I expected this when I arranged the delivery from her storage unit, but that doesn’t stop my chest from spasming with a feeling dangerously close to sorrow.
As I keep stroking her cheek, her eyes flutter open. Her eyebrows pinch together like she’s struggling to recognize me. “D-Dmitri…”
“Come on. Let me get you to bed.”
She shakes her head vehemently and sits upright. “Where were you?”
“I had business to take care of. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner to help you with all this,” I say, gesturing to the clothes at our feet.
She picks up one of the tiny sweaters closest to her. It’s made of white and yellow stripes and there’s a little honey bee stitched into the front pocket. “I can’t believe you brought me Rose’s trunk.”
“It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
She nods. “It was. But…”
“But?”
Her expression crumples, like she wants to cry more but she won’t give in to the impulse. “I guess I wasn’t sure if you wanted our son to be dressed in the clothes my dead sister made for her babies who were never born.” She cringes at the harshness of her own words.
“I just want you to be happy.”
A fresh tear slips down the side of her face. I guess she had more to shed after all. “You get a say in this, too, you know.”
“If I objected, I would tell you, Wren.”
