Page 4 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

I start to stand. Anastasia stops me with a raised hand and drops into the seat by my side first. She pours herself a cup of tea, swirling in a splash of milk. She greets Galina. They engage in some mindless pleasantries. I wait, setting down my spoon. Anastasia serves herself a helping of kasha.

My patience dwindles within minutes.

“Stasi.”

“It’s a big fire, Anton,” she says.

I remain undaunted. My whole life is a series of fires to put out. I gesture for her to carry on. “Just tell me.”

Oh yeah? The raise of her brows challenges.

Resolutely, I nod. “Tell me.”

“There’s been a series of leaks over the past two weeks. To rival gangs. Several rumors were swirling around town. Personally, I think that’s a smokescreen, and it’s one specific gang the mole’s selling intel to,” she says.

Every nerve in my body grows numb from the chill that courses through it. “Is it—?”

Not only is my cousin my best friend, but she’s also my oldest. Our history organically lends itself to a shorthand that often comes in clutch. She doesn’t need me to finish the question that permeates the room with thick, suffocating tension. Nor does she require any explanation of any attached implications. She knows the name I can’t spit out.

She utters it for me.

“Not the Yuris.” She gives a single, firm shake of her head. “Information is spreading from their camp, too. Trade routes, contacts, shipment schedules. I’ve been mining through this shit all week. I considered that could be a red herring to cover tracks, but it just doesn’t check out.”

Okay. So it isn’t the Yuris—just maybe someone beneath their fucking banner. It has to be. Something deep within me objects to the idea that it could be someone beneath my tutelage. Having been blind to everything Viktor’s done over the past three years already felt like a near-fatal blow to the Zakharov Bratva. Not executing him is adding another failure to my tally. More than one person is keeping count. What the fuck will this do to an already tenuous alliance, holding onto legacy by a thin, precarious thread?

“Any leads?” I demand.

This needs to be nipped in the bud. It needed to be nipped in the bud yesterday.

The tension is rife enough for my mother to scoot back her chair and excuse herself. It isn’t surprising. If anything, it’s interesting that she didn’t bolt at the first sight of the severe expression on Stasi’s face. Galina loathes being privy to the Bratva world. It doesn’t matter that she was born into it, then married into it, or that her son—and her husband’s bastard child, for that matter—lives and will probably die within it. She doesn’t like to hear about it.

Anastasia kindly waits out her departure with an expectant pause.

Only once Mama’s footsteps recede does she answer. “Not one. I’m keeping a close eye, but you should probably touch base with our new pals. You have to.”

Through grit teeth, I agree. I’ve got my pest of a half-brother to thank for this. Tenuous or not, this alliance is in play. It’s known and has been established from Boston to fucking Moscow. Whether anyone likes it or not—and, given a fucking mole, the answer is obviously ‘not’—it is an alliance that requires tending.

That means goodwill is for me to drum up, or something awry to decipher, while that son of a bitch gallivants around New York City with his better half, Nadya Yuri, by his side. I shove back my seat and rise. “Are you coming with?”

Anastasia makes a noise of dissent deep in her throat, then drowns it in a swallow of tea. “I’ve got to debrief Papa about this, too.”

I wince. “Should I—?”

“No,” she laughs. “I can handle my father just fine, Tosha.”

The diminutive of my name is a thing I’d only ever allow Anastasia Zakharov. Nevertheless, I roll my eyes at it. I’ll still let her have it, especially since she’s got the impetuous task of informing Boris. If anyone can, it’s likely Anastasia. That doesn’t negate that Boris is a tough man. It’s what makes him an irreplaceable asset to the Zakharov Bratva. That’s also what makes my uncle—my father’s brother—double as my Advisor, too. I hold his opinion in great regard. Thus, we are fucked. He’s always been wildly against this alliance. There’s no chance of keeping this rupture in it from him. In fact, it would be stupid to.

With a resigned grimace, I empty the rest of my cup. “Ask him to wait in my office. I’ll be back.” In front of her, I pointedly switched my phone to Do Not Disturb. I pause only to refill her cup.

With a parting glance at the paisleys dotting the plate, I take my leave.

***

By design, the Yuri estate is a way away from the Zakharov manor. The twenty-minute drive from Dover to Weston is endless. At the end of a sprawling driveway, past the heavily armed gate, is the Yuri mansion. My associates have already conferred with theirs; there’s no holdup.

Trifon Yuri himself awaits in the parlor for me. He doesn’t mince his words. I appreciate that about him. His hands in his pockets, he outright asks, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Anton?”

I dismiss the guards flanking my every side with a flick of a gaze.