Page 10 of Baby for the Bratva King

Four of my men are gathered in a booth, all turning my way when they see me enter. Most know better than to bite the hand that feeds them, but my right-hand-man Gabriel likes to test his luck.

I sit on the edge of the booth, the server fixing me with a scotch.

“What brings you home a day early?” asks one of my men. “Homesick?”

I shrug. “I finished all my work, and I wasn’t interested in sightseeing.”

“And the press,” says Gabriel, flipping his phone around. “Looks like they were hounding you like dogs over there.”

I watch the video of me walking through the hotel lobby, my head low, my tolerance even fucking lower.

Gabriel flashes me a look across the table. “You could at least acknowledge the cameras.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the cameras.”

“Or your reputation, by the sounds of things,” adds another man. “You should hold a conversation with the journalists, at least look like you’re enjoying yourself as a billionaire CEO.”

“It’s not worth fussing over.”

“Perhaps not,” says Gabriel. “But engaging with the press improves your name, keeping you in people’s hearts.”

“Felix has no problem with the latter,” drawls one of my men.

“For the time being,” contemplates Gabriel. “But what about the mafia allegations, you leading a Bratva behind the scenes? You dismissing the press, looking uninterested, makes you look like you’re carrying around a guilty conscience.”

“Which would coincide with the organized crime rumors,” adds another.”

“Let people talk and waste their own time,” I say, taking a big sip of scotch. “Their drama is none of my business.”

“Until someone finds evidence that would support the allegations. You can’t argue with the truth when it comes out, and then before you know it, love is turning into hatred and people are finding out about the murders.”

“Fear is stronger than the truth. And most of the time, it can be more definitive.” I swill the scotch around in the glass before taking a sip, looking between my four very confused men. “They already think I’m a criminal because of the tattoos. The press can keep rolling with the narrative for all I care, thinking I’m up to no good. The second the truth comes out, everyone will be out of pocket when they realize there are no more allegations to report. You can string rumors along for miles, but the truth? It’s like a period at the end of a sentence.”

“Interesting take,” says Gabriel.

“Anything else you would like to complain about while I’m here, other than my lack of interest in PR?”

“Aside from our client Ivan Furenuz who is unwilling to pay up, I think we’ve covered all bases.”

“One of the enforcers already has Ivan under control,” reports Gabriel. “He’ll be taken care of tonight.”

“I want his body minced and thrown away before first light,” I say. “We had a close call a few months ago when I was photographed messing around a side-alley in Brooklyn, sniffing around those dumpsters.”

“You being compared to an animal is nothing new,” says Gabriel. “You’re as ravenous with one, always sticking your cock into something warm while we deal with the business sides of things.”

“Complain all you want. That’s what I pay you to do.”

“Did you break your new maid in yet?” teases another.

I slam the glass down on the table, flashing Ziven a glare. He composes himself, but I sense the underlying fear. Even killers tremble in my presence.

The mafia allegations will always be rumors. The truth will always stay hidden. Very few people have the balls to test my authority, too afraid to push boundaries, to make me snap.

Before Saskia came along, Gabriel was the only person who challenged me, but we knew each other as kids. He’s seen me grow.

Saskia is a mystery. She challenges my control by breaking eye contact, always the first to walk away, to end the very brief conversations we have.

How dare she walk out of my house without my permission, throwing in the towel? She will not leave halfway through her shift, quitting, unless I tell her to.