Page 173 of The Wrong Brother

Right hand to the Bratva Pakhan. It’s not entirely alarming. After all, my father has been working closely with the Bratva. Renting space in their ports, using shipping routes at their discretion. But even now there’s a flicker of annoyance in his gaze as he stares down Demsky. Hinto Moreno has never liked being told what he can and can’t do, and the moment he stepped foot in Savannah, the Bratva had the upper hand.

So what the hell am I doing here between the two of them?

I don’t rush; running toward anything my father arranges has never ended well for me. I take my time as I walk up the aisle, the sound of my boots soft against the tile, but somehow still too loud in the cavernous room. The church seems to stretch longer the closer I get to them. The distance wraps around like a bad dream where the door keeps sliding away no matter how fast you move.

My pulse drums in my ears, steady and heavy.

I keep my chin up and my shoulders loose, pretending I’m calmer than I feel while my eyes flick between the three figures waiting at the front.

My father stands relaxed; he’s almost cheerful. He looks like this is a family dinner instead of whatever midnight meeting he’s dragged me to. The older woman adjusts her glasses and straightens the papers, the crisp shuffling sound carrying across the pews. Official documents. Contracts, maybe.

And then there’s Liev Demsky.

Even from halfway down the aisle, I feel the gravity of him.

I met his boss once, Kazimir Baranov, under the worst possible circumstances. Seven months ago he had me tied to a chair and used me as leverage against my father. Most people would call that trauma. I call it education.

Baranov had been cold, precise, terrifying in a way that made sense. A man who calculated losses before he made a move and never fumbled the math.

The opposite of my father.

What was particularly interesting about that situation was that he did it all for a woman, Alyona Demsky. She is the daughter of the man standing in front of me. From the bits of rumor I’ve caught on the intelligence side of things, Kazimir fell hard for Alyona. And when my father found out, he threatened the woman, which was a mistake. Kazimir made him pay. In part by kidnapping me, and then later by laying down rules. My father hates rules.

If Baranov has tightened his grip onSavannahand decided we only get to keep our foothold here by proving our value, maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe they want me more involved. Maybe this is a step up.

It’s a stupid, hopeful thought, but I let myself have it for three seconds. Because I still have no idea what the hell is going on. And I hate the effect Liev Demsky is having on me.

I don’t know what I was expecting tonight, but it wasn’t him.

He must be close to twice my age. On the boat all those months ago, I’d passed the time needling the old man just to get a riseout of him. Watched the color climb up his thick neck, watched his eyes darken as I joked and insulted him.

Ugh. A memory flashes of how turned on I’d been and how my body responded to the promise of pain in his eyes.

The memory of the situation sends prickles down the back of my neck as I walk down the aisle toward Liev Demsky. There’s no chance in hell we wouldn’t kill each other before the hour was out, but damn, I wouldn’t mind spending a night with him.

My thoughts alone are desecrating the church. It’s a wonder I don’t burst into flame.

Part of me expects Liev’s lip to curl in disgust; there’s no love lost between us, but tonight he looks calm. Almost resigned.

When I finally reach them, my father beams as if I’ve just come home from college with straight A’s. Which I did, but he didn’t care then.

“Mi niña,” he says warmly, opening his arms. The endearment makes my skin crawl and my hackles rise. He uses it only when he wants something.

“I’m here,” I reply carefully, my voice even. “What’s the deal?”

The older woman clears her throat and flips open a folder. Behind me, something shifts. Or rather, someone.

Leather creaks. Shoes scrape.

I glance over my shoulder.

Four of my father’s men have moved closer without me noticing. One is near the pews and three are by the door. Their stances are loose, but deliberate. They’re not guarding the exits; they’re blocking them.

My stomach drops.

When I turn back, Liev is watching the repositioning too. His eyes are sharp and narrowing slightly as they move from me to my father and back again. It’s like he doesn’t love whatever choreography is happening either.

That should comfort me.