Page 3 of Wreaking Havoc
His brother would simply have to wait.
And if Sergei got punished for it…
Well, that was the price of working for a mobster, wasn’t it? He’d chosen his path, after all.
Sascha had never had that luxury.
One would think,after paying five figures for a suit, said suit would be, at the very least, not only exquisite to look at, butcomfortable.
But no. The damn thing itched and tugged and constricted like any other of its cheaper brethren. Suits were a fucking scam was what they were. Designed to keep men on edge so they didn’t miss any important nuances of their busy business dealings or whatever.
Which was why it was so utterly fucking pointless for Sascha to be wearing one, wasn’t it? He had no business dealings to speak of, and being on edge only made his stomach hurt.
But Ivan insisted, like their almighty father had before him, and so here Sascha was, in yet another overpriced, uncomfortable suit, miserable and pissy.
Not that anyone would know, he thought, breezing through the glass doors of Ivan’s office building with a smile plastered on his face, nodding amiably to the guard who scanned his key card. Sascha was pampered, rich, and carefree, without having to work a day in his life for it, as Ivan loved to remind him. It was only in the privacy of his own home that he was allowed to be sulky or demanding.
Or the privacy of Ivan’s office, as was often the case.
Ivan’s office that had been relocated from the shabby warehouse to this sleek monstrosity the second their father had croaked. Ivan had said he was dragging their family businessinto the modern era, but Sascha knew what he wasreallydoing: putting his power on display. Poor brute couldn’t resist.
Still, there were perks. It was close to more than a few designer shops, for one. And it didn’t smell like black mold, for another.
But there were other places Sascha would rather be this fine sunny morning. Like the bed of his current dalliance, for example—the one he’d been so unceremoniously dragged out of. Sascha didn’t do morning cuddles, not with any of his disposable men, but he wouldn’t have minded another round. The man was hung like a horse, for all that his head seemed to contain more skull than brain matter.
Sascha pressed the button for the elevator just as his phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket.
Where the fuck are you?
God, Ivan really had been on a tear since Alexei had run off, never mind that it had been almost two years since their brother had fled.
Ivan hadn’t even summoned Sascha himself, and yet here he was pestering him like he was late when it had barely been forty-five minutes. If he expected Sascha to arrive dressed appropriately, then he had to wait for the results, didn’t he?
Keep your boxer briefs on, brother dearest, Sascha texted back, just as the elevator arrived.
Oh, that would piss him off. But it wasn’t like he’d actuallyhurtSascha. And Sascha was maybe the only man in all of New York who could say that.
His allowance, however, was another matter.
Shit.Was it too late to take that text back?
Sascha nodded distractedly to the other elevator occupant—some middle-aged man in a workman’s uniform—as he considered whether to apologize over text or wait until he was facing him in person.
“Floor?”
“Oh!” Sascha startled at the gruff voice, then cleared his throat, trying to cover up his less-than-suave reaction. Ivan was probably monitoring the security camera like a creep, and he was sure to call Sascha out on his lack of composure later. “Um, fifteen, please.”
The man pressed the button for the fifteenth floor. No other buttons were lit up. Huh. Maybe Ivan was installing new security cameras in his office as well, assuaging some of that rampant paranoia of his.
Sascha’s stomach dipped as the elevator rose. He was regretting his text, and it was giving him a tummy ache. He hated that. And his goddamshoefelt loose, to top it all off.
He glanced down to see his shoelace had come undone. See? Even the expensive shoes that came with the expensive suit were bullshit.
He bent down to tie it, a whoosh of air brushing past his torso as he did so. And then—
Fuck.
A fiery burn erupted out of nowhere in Sascha’s upper arm, leaving him choking on air. He glanced down, already afraid of what he’d find.
