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Chapter 15
Viktor
Boris sat in the back with me while Andrei drove the sedan. He was silent, his eyes flicking from me to his hands, which were curled nervously on his knees.
He was drunk. I had seen him drunk a hundred times before, but never during the day, and never on duty. But now, he’d done it twice within a week. And just like then, he was trying to hide it from me now.
We had gotten into some decent fights in our youth. I always beat him—he had the size and reach advantage but he simply never trained as hard, and he wasn’t as clever as I was either. Toughness only held him for so long when I was just as tough and persistent.
Right now, I wanted to order the car to the side of the road and kick his ass like we were still a couple of rowdy Russian orphans. But instead, I had to retain my composure, and handle this professionally.
The only problem was, in the Bratva, there were no firings. There were punishments, there was a form of exile involving the forcible removal of one’s tattoos…but ultimately, the only answer to the worst offenses was a bullet.
I was a long way from that with Boris, but I worried. I worried that he would be stubborn, that he would double down on his newfound stupidity if called on it. That he would disappear into the bottle he was now pulling on by lunchtime. And that he would once again fail in a way that got one of us killed.
When he finally spoke, however, it wasn’t any kind of apology. Nor did he ask what was on my mind that kept me quiet as well. No. He cleared his throat, and then said in a low voice, “You’re fucking that auction lady, aren’t you?”
I shot him an incredulous look. “What in God’s name are you bringing that up for?”
“The hypocrisy.” He stared at me, then scowled and bobbed his head. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking her. On the regular, I’m guessing, from the way you looked at her.”
I stared at him silently for several seconds and watched him start to fidget again. Then I said, in a low, cold voice, “What hypocrisy?”
“You didn’t like my screwing around when I was supposed to be focused on business, and that was fair. But then you turn around and do it yourself!” His face was darkening. Little snaps of anger showed in his small, black eyes.
I turned on him, the anger that had been simmering inside me since I noticed he was drunk rising in me like magma before an eruption. “Have you completely lost your mind, speaking to me this way? Olivia was doing her job today, as was I. She did not distract me from it in ways that cost the Bratva, like your Maria did. She’s helping me settle my uncle’s affairs.
“The fact that she’s been in my bed a few times does nothing to damage my performance as leader. None of us have died on my watch because of my minor involvement with her. Can you say the same?”
He sank back in his seat a little, big arms folded on his barrel chest and his face as sullen as a teenager’s. “That was just bad luck.”
I fell silent and just stared at him, amazed how my strong right hand had become so weak and childish so fast. I knew his feelings were hurt that I was no longer showing him any favoritism, but I couldn’t afford to. Not while he kept fucking up and then pretending it wasn’t a problem or wasn’t his fault.
“That was a mix of exhaustion from carousing all night with a lover who may just be working for the Puerto Ricans, and drunkenness from your newfound alcoholism. Which I see won the fight again today.”
He went pale at that, and I snorted in disgust and looked away. “Of course I noticed, Boris. And very likely, so have others.”
When I looked back at him, he was staring at me red-faced, jaw set, stubborn anger in his eyes. I shook my head incredulously. I hadn’t seen him act like this since we were twenty. “What do you think is going to happen once it gets around that you’re often drunk, arguing with me, failing at your duties in ways that get people killed, and possibly sleeping with a Pueblo member? Once that happens, I’ll be expected to discipline you, or then I really will seem weak.”
No answer. His mouth worked, but not a word slipped out of it.
“Why the hell are you acting like this?” I watched him squirm under my gaze and refuse to look back at me. “You’ve let your drinking get out of control, and you’re acting like a boy half your age—”
“Don’t insult me,” he growled under his breath.
I slapped him. Back of the hand, across his face. Not even that hard, but it startled him into silence. He’d seen me do it to others before, but I’d never had to do it to him before.
“You are drunk, you are fucking up, and you are being an asshole about it,” I told him in Russian. “You are embarrassing me. You are embarrassing yourself.” That seemed to get through his defenses, he flinched slightly. I calmed a little as I switched back to English.
“If you find the truth insulting, perhaps you should change it. I find it insulting that you’re failing me and giving me a bad attitude on top of everything. But when I ask you what’s going on—”
“Nothing is going on,” he snapped a little too quickly and loudly for comfort. “I’ve just been having a run of bad luck.”
“I would agree with you, but your bad luck is largely self-inflicted,” I replied with exaggerated patience. “I simply don’t understand why one warning wasn’t enough for you.”
He was quiet for a long while. I watched him, keeping my face implacable. Finally, he looked up at me and said, “You should trust me to take care of my problems on my own.”
“I did. But you’ve failed to do so, Boris. You have failed my faith in you, our brothers, and yourself. And most of all—”
