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I let that bit of information drop to give me further kudos in his eyes, but also in case my father can offer her any further protection.
“What sort of danger?” he asks.
I twist my coffee cup in my hands. “Threats from an ex. He seems dangerous, though.”
“You can’t protect her, huh?” Igor’s smirk is rage inducing. “He says he can, but he comes to his father, dropping hints that he needs help. Like a little mouse.”
Igor makes a squeaking, mouselike sound, and I resist the urge to punch him. The minute I take over from my father, my first act as Pakhan—the crime boss—will be executing Igor. I will make it slow. Perhaps he can be murdered by The Boats, a terrible execution method the Persians supposedly employed and one which I imagine using on Igor with relish.
“Yes, I can, of course.” I turn the cup around again. “Maybe knowing she has your protection too would help.”
I put the words out there, and as soon as I do, I regret it. My father isn’t a stable man, and he’s already noticed Mack. I don’t think she will thank me for putting her on his radar. Still, he can keep her safe. The organization Grigoriy runs can make almost anyone disappear. They say he has the presidents of nations afraid of him.
“If she was your bride, she’d have the protection of the entire Volga Bratva,” Grigoriy says with a smile.
It’s not a smirk, nor a sneer. It is calculating, but it seems sincere.
“You want me to marry her?” I stare at him, incredulous. “I’m not even twenty-two.”
“You will be in a couple of months. Marry young, have many healthy babies. Bring us lots of boys. Your mother was a disappointment in that sense.” He blows out a long breath. “She failed us, the Bratva. The girl looks fertile. Strong. She is beautiful too.”
I bite at my lower lip, hard enough to taste blood. “I haven’t thought about marriage.”
“You have made me a little proud today, with the money you earned from these watches.” My father takes something out of his pocket and places it on the table. “This is for you.”
I stare at it. It’s the Rolex.
“For me?”
“Da.” He smiles. “You said the other watch made you happy. So I give you this one. Also, I give you this.”
He slides an envelope over to me. I peer inside it and almost drop the damn thing. It’s stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.
“That is not a gift. That is money for you to buy and sell more watches. You got me a better return than any investment.” He gives a deep chuckle.
I pocket the money and hold the Rolex in my hands, examining it.
“This is from me to you.” My father clears his throat. “A recognition that you are becoming a man. You did something that could have gone very wrong for you, but you took initiative and a risk, and it worked out. It is those skills, and that bravery, one needs to run the Bratva. You also need a bride. What better than a stunning American girl? You would be admired with her on your arm, my son.”
I stare at him, and I can see real pride in his gaze. Igor’s sour milk expression alone is enough to tell me my father means this. He’s proud of me.
Whirling emotions consume me. I can’t remember the last time my father looked at me this way. Perhaps when I was a little boy before I became a disappointment to him. I would love for him to look at me this way more often.
Maybe there is a chance we can make a connection. Even as I’m thinking this, I know, deep down, it is an illusion. A false hope. My father doesn’t love, not properly. He only uses and hurts, but it’s so tempting to let myself fall into the trap of his regard. Maybe if he loved me, he wouldn’t lock me in the dark anymore.
Maybe, if I married Mackenzie, she’d soften him. Our Duchess can handle anyone. She can handle us three, can’t she? I bet she’d wrap my beast of a father around her pretty fingers, and I would finally have an easier life. Some respect. Some status in the organization I was born to lead one day.
“You will bring her to see me.” Grigoriy nods in satisfaction.
It’s an order, not a request.
“Put a ring on her finger and at least get engaged to her. The marriage doesn’t have to happen yet, but if you don’t claim her, someone else might.”
“He can’t marry a girl like that.” Igor snorts.
My father backhands him so hard, Igor’s head bounces off the glass. “Don’t fucking dismiss my son that way.”
Those words light a fire in me. He defended me. Over Igor. Other customers in the diner noticed, and there’s a new uneasiness to the atmosphere. It’s easy to tell that people are wondering if they should step in or mind their own business.
