Page 3 of Bratva Baby

We just tell different stories about how.

Years ago, before I was old enough to understand the business and young enough to hear everything anyway, a protected shipment disappeared somewhere in the port structure. Then a Reznikov captain died.

Then an intermediary, a man both sides were supposed to leave untouched, turned up dead before he could settle terms.

After that came reprisals, dock violence, burned storage, men dragged out of cars, and enough blood to make both houses realize open war was bad for revenue. The truce that followed was all about management.

You can build empires on grievance if you invoice them well enough.

Anton’s presence here means whatever just went wrong tonight isn’t small.

Grigor goes to greet him, and everyone pretends not to notice. That’s the art here. Everyone sees everything and reacts to nothing.

The quartet keeps playing. A woman in emerald satin touches her husband’s sleeve and smiles at someone else entirely. Two men from customs keep discussing a ski trip.

I can’t tear my eyes away from them.

Anton says something to my uncle. Grigor answers. Neither man lifts his voice. Maks glances over once, then looks away, and that alone makes my skin go cold.

A soft laugh sounds beside me. “You’re staring,” says Mikhail Arsenyev, who has been trying for six months to interest me in marriage, sex, or some arrangement that would allow him to call it both.

I turn to find him in navy formalwear and expensive cologne, smiling like this is a joke we’re sharing. “Then thank God I was raised better than to do it obviously.”

He grins. “You wound me.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive.”

He shifts closer, lowering his voice. “Your uncle looks unhappy.”

“He’s hosting. That’s his natural state.”

Mikhail snorts. He’s harmless by our standards, which still leaves plenty of room for ordinary male arrogance.

His father has freezer contracts and a parking garage empire that launders more than cars. He’s handsome in a polished way. He also thinks persistence is seductive.

“I was going to ask if you’re free next Thursday,” he says, eyes flicking toward the center of the room. “Now I’m wondering whether your family plans to shoot anyone before dessert.”

“Only if the dessert disappoints,” I say.

That earns a laugh, though I’m not fully listening.

My eyes roam and land on Anton again.

He’s making a slow, unapologetic sweep of me, head to toe, like he owns every inch he studies.

When he drags those eyes back up and stops at my mouth, butterflies erupt in my stomach.

I scowl and look away immediately. Who the hell does he think he is, standing there shamelessly devouring me where everyone can see?

Mikhail is still talking. “My mother asked after you, actually.”

“Did she ask after me,” I say, dragging my attention back where it belongs, “or did she ask whether I’m available?”

He winces, amused and caught. “Does it matter?”

“It does when one question is human and the other is inventory.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. To his credit, he laughs instead of sulking. “You never make anything easy.”