“Ilya? You still live. Good.”
I ignore his greeting. “Can I count on you to handle and delegate the jobs on your schedule?”
“If you hang up, I can get back to the one I’m doing.”
“The answer is… Yes? No? Forgive me if I’m less than complacent and trusting.” I rub my temple and pull the bottle of vodka on my desk closer.
I open it and pour a healthy amount into my coffee. It hits the spot.
Denis muffles the phone and says something to someone, and then the soundscape changes to music. He’s scheduled to oversee a collection of drugs at a strip joint a Belov ally owns.
He’s early, and I wonder if it’s to enjoy the girls or to make sure everything runs smoothly.
My money’s on the latter, with a bonus of the former thrown in for good measure.
“It’s not that you were too complacent or trusting. You just trusted someone who turned out to be a bad actor in this. For what it’s worth,” he says in Russian, “I didn’t see that one coming. He played the role of helpful second to a fault. If he hesitated a little before answering or defended you in the kind of way that made you look incompetent to some, then they just chose the familiar option instead of looking into it.
“Your reputation precedes you, which is why I’m here. And why a few men who can think for themselves are either neutral or on my side, which is yours. But safer, if that makes sense. I don’t hide who or what I am, or who I choose to align with.
“If I didn’t want to be aligned with you, I wouldn’t have been at that dinner, and I certainly wouldn’t have been at that fucked-up raid. Now stop bothering me.”
Denis hangs up.
He’s an ass, but I think I like him. He’s a rougher version of Demyan. Not as powerful, but where Demyan’s smooth, this man is rough and tumble.
I want to trust him, and for today, I have no choice, but I also don’t want to think about it.
Actually, I don’t want to think about anything Belov related.
I cancel my meetings, no explanations, just the option to reschedule or lose the deals. In this moment, I don’t give a fuck.
I finish my coffee and vodka, the warmth of the liquor moving through me, easing the tension and the dull pounding in my head.
What I need is more booze.
I need oblivion.
That thing that’ll erase all the pain and frustration I feel. I’ll drown those sorrows so thoroughly that people will think I went Italian and put concrete boots on those fucking sorrows.
By mid-afternoon, the world is a better place.
The one thing I can’t make fuzzy is fucking Demyan.
His words still echo like he’s saying them now, in my ear, over and over.
Fuck me, I should’ve shut Alina down the moment she came up with that idiotic idea of marrying me. I could have paid any small-time bratva family looking for a way into the big time with my name and a ring for their daughter’s finger. It wouldn’t even matter who.
Even if they tried to extort more from me, break whatever contract I’d make them sign, it would be better than this.
No one would have been kidnapped. I’d still just be friends withmalyshka, and Demyan and I would go on as usual.
Marrying someone I didn’t care for would have been safe. I chose my heart and put Alina in danger.
Thing is, I should have seen how dangerous it would be, but I was too fucking selfish.
I sprawl on the sofa, drinking from the bottle. Then I frown and get up, almost keeling over. I don’t want to be in this fucking study. Instead, I lumber down to the sitting room withthe marginally more comfortable sofa and the bigger bar, one I haven’t raided yet.
Sprawling once more, I keep drinking.
