Page 1 of Fractured Ties

1.

IF HIS father sent someone to drag his ass out of bed—even if it was a night when he drank half of his body weight in vodka—Kolya couldn’t refuse. Especially not when his father was the Pakhan.

The stars tattooed on Kolya Boykov’s chest meant that regardless if he was drunk or not, Vadim owned his fucking ass for life. Or at least until death.

“Move your ass, Kolya,” the man outside his bathroom barked. “You know the boss won’t appreciate being made to wait on you again.”

Fuck.

Like Kolya needed a reminder, or something.

“I’m trying to take a piss, yeah? Shut that goddamn hole in your face.”

“Surly today, no?”

Kolya spat out a laugh that tasted like hatred, bitterness, and vodka on his tongue. Today, right. That was a goddamn joke when it was … Kolya glanced down at the Rolex watch adorning his large wrist. Four in the fucking morning!

Who called someone at four in the morning?

Jesus.

Tipping his head back to let out another frustrated growl, Kolya finished up his business, and took his sweet time washing his hands, too. The less time he had to spend in his father’s presence, the better. He swore Vadim pulled shit like this just because he could—because the bastard got a good rise out of pestering the living hell out of his sons—and nothing else.

The fist banging against the bathroom door all but sent Kolya’s blood pressure skyrocketing. “Working on getting my foot shoved up your ass, Anatoly.”

The fact the bull had been one of Vadim’s best men for longer than Kolya cared to remember didn’t really make much of a fucking difference to him at the end of the day. He would still make sure the man knew the taste of pain before Kolya ended his life.

With a smile.

Kolya took that whole kill them with kindness thing to another level.

“It’s not Anatoly, brat,” came a new voice.

Kolya’s posture softened a bit at Konstantin’s—his younger brother by two years—voice. But not very much. Konstantin, depending on the time, day, or his mood, could be just as irritating as anyone else in Kolya’s path.

Or shit, maybe it was just Kolya.

“When did you get here?”

“Two minutes ago,” Konstantin said through the door. “How long are you going to wash your hands?”

Kolya grumbled unintelligibly under his breath—until I’m decently sober. At the moment, he was pretty sure if he walked too fast, he would tumble over. Nobody needed to see all six-foot-four, and two-hundred-fifty pounds of him topple over because he wasn’t willing to admit he’d drank too much vodka.

That looked good on no man.

But especially not a vor.

And definitely not a Russian.

Fuck it.

Kolya shut off the water and ignored the stinging in his hands. The water had been hotter than the devil’s ass and turned his hands bright red in the process. Damn—like he needed more proof that he wasn’t the least bit up to par for a meeting this early in the goddamn morning with his father.

Vadim Boykov didn’t miss a thing.

He ate shit like misdeeds and missteps for breakfast.

Saw them as weaknesses.