Page 2 of Fractured Ties

And when it came to his sons?

Vadim was far worse.

It was as though the man expected ten times from Kolya and Konstantin what he demanded from other men. Anyone else might have to jump when told to, but the Boykov brothers better damn well fly when Vadim even suggested it.

Twenty-six years under his father’s thumb had taught Kolya one important lesson about life, family, and vory: as long as you were a thief, none of the rest meant shit, and the less he expected from his father, the better off he would be.

That was, unless Kolya was expecting something like a slap to the back of his head, or some other form of punishment meant to cut him down a step or two or degrade him enough to humiliate him. Vadim liked to think of that as teachable moments for his boys.

Dragging himself from his thoughts, Kolya yanked open the bathroom door and found Konstantin leaning against the wall. Konstantin was peering at the glowing screen of his phone. He didn’t even glance up at his brother’s entrance.

“Got the call, too, I see,” Kolya muttered.

“Yes.”

Konstantin’s confirmative reply followed Kolya into the bedroom across the hall.

“Where did Anatoly disappear to?”

Konstantin tipped his head to the side with one of those looks of his, saying, “Said he wasn’t waiting on you anymore, and since I was here …”

Kolya chuckled dryly. “Fucking useless.”

“Funny.”

“Izvinee,” Kolya mumbled, “because nothing about this seems fucking funny to me. You like getting your ass up for Papa in the middle of the night, Konstantin? Because I do not.”

“Funny,” Konstantin returned, “because Anatoly says the same thing about you.”

Yeah, well …

Kolya didn’t even bother to respond to that statement, instead he picked up the pace to leave his place. His shitty little apartment in the Heights wasn’t much to look at, but it was good enough for him at the moment. It was close to his work, and easy access to everything else. A shitty part of the city, sure, but who the fuck was going to mess with a Boykov in Chicago?

They owned this fucking city.

The Boykov Bratva was well-known in the city. Most idiots just referred to them as the Russian mafia, but he attributed that ignorance to the fact that the inner workings of the Bratva and their customs weren’t exactly public consumption.

People knew to leave them the fuck alone and stay the hell away. Which was exactly what Kolya enjoyed most about being who he was. He didn’t like others, in general—he couldn’t even pretend to try on most days. His disposition and last name afforded him the sanctuary of people keeping their distance, which meant he rarely needed to bother with anyone else at all.

That was enough for Kolya.

Unless, of course, it was his father.

Because he was Vadim.

That was really all Kolya needed to say.

“You need to upgrade from this apartment,” Konstantin said, glancing around Kolya’s darkened bedroom. “Live up to the standards of your name, no?”

Kolya rolled his eyes and ground his teeth together as he pulled out appropriate clothing for a meeting with his father. No stupid fuck thought to meet Vadim in anything less than a suit, or black clothes that could pass as dressier wear. “Don’t take cheap shots at my place, suka. Not all of us need to live in a mansion on the hills,”

“I don’t live in a fucking mansion on the hills.”

“Yet,” Kolya returned.

He was looking at a house in Melrose Park, but buying something like that meant his sister, Viktoria, would probably want to have a housewarming party. And a party for a Boykov meant his father would be invited, and other people.

Not Kolya’s thing.