Page 116 of The Bratva Sinner

“I understand.” He pauses. “It doesn’t mean you haven’t made a fucking mess.”

“I know.”

“You’ve dragged the Sokolov name into a conflict that should have been handled quietly.”

“I thought I was handling it quietly. That’s why I paid them. They could have just let it fucking go.”

“Or you could have.”

“That wasn’t an option.”

“There are ways to handle things,” he says.

“I let it get personal, and personal makes you stupid.” It’s a phrase our father said a million times. He raised us to be cold-blooded, emotionless soldiers. It worked for a long time. It was still working for Nikolai, but Sergei and I had fallen. “I’m not apologizing for protecting her. I’ll admit things got messy.”

“Messy. That’s generous.”

“I’m aware.”

“Here’s what I’m going to tell you,” Sergei says. “And I want you to listen carefully because I’m only going to say it once.”

“I’m listening.”

“You created this. The war, the exposure. The risk. All of it. You made the moves that got you here, and you are going to be the one who resolves it. I’m not going to send men to clean up your personal business. That’s not what Miami is for.”

He says it like the city itself is the assignment. Like he put me here. I know I’m a tool for the bratva, but Miami is mine.

“I know,” I say.

“What I will do is make sure you have access to resources if this escalates beyond the local level. If they bring in outside support and this becomes something larger, you call me. Immediately. Not after. Not when it’s burning. Before.”

“Understood.”

“Maksim? Get this handled. Not for me or the bratva. For her. For you and your future. You deserve someone to love you, and she sounds like she might have the courage to stand by your crazy ass.”

I almost smile.

I hadn’t expected that from him. Sergei doesn’t speak that way about people he hasn’t met.

At least, he didn’t. His wife softened him just enough to make him palatable. He still has hard edges, but there’s more to the ice-cold pakhan.

“She wants to be a veterinarian,” I say.

“Then make sure she becomes one.” His tone is more conversational now. Softer. “That’s your job now. Not just keeping her alive. Getting her to the life she should have had. That’s what you owe her for dragging her into yours.”

“I’ll handle Arlind,” I say.

“You’d better. We’ll be on standby. Think before you light another fucking match.”

“Lighter.”

“Excuse me?”

“I used a lighter.”

He curses, calling me several names, but none of them have any teeth.

“She sounds like a woman worth starting a war over,” he says, and I swear I hear approval in his voice. I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten that from him. I’m the fuck-up. The playboy. The partier. And my big brother finally approves of what I’m doing. “Don’t waste it.”