Page 50 of The Wrong Brother

“Mr. Smirnov.”

“Victor.”

He glances once toward the security guard, Stepan, stationed discreetly outside the room before accepting the bourbon poured for him. Smart enough not to comment on it being a little early.

Victor came up years ago writing nightlife pieces and local political gossip nobody respected. Then I quietly redirected certain information toward him. Exclusive leads. Financial whispers. Society scandals just valuable enough to elevate his career without exposing my involvement.

Now he writes for one of Denver’s largest publications. He’s been a useful investment.

“I was surprised to hear from you,” Victor admits carefully. We’ve never met in person, and I can feel his eyes flickering over my face as I read the menu. He’s trying to suss me out, figure out what kind of man I am outside of the short-and-to-the-point texts.

“No,” I say calmly. “You were frightened to hear from me.”

His silence confirms it. Good.

When lunch arrives, neither of us touches it. I lean back slightly in my chair instead, studying the skyline through the restaurant windows while Victor tries unsuccessfully not to sweat through his collar, despite the drop in temperature to the low 60s today.

“You are going to run a story tomorrow morning.”

His fork pauses immediately. “About?”

“My return.”

Victor blinks once.

Ah.

There it is.

Interesting how quickly word spreads through political circles in this city. Even now, the idea of me returning clearly feels impossible tosomepeople. So Victor did his research, as any good journalist would.

He knows at least the seed of who I am—was—before I left.

“That’s…unexpected,” he says cautiously.

“I enjoy surprising family.”

His eyes narrow slightly at that. Victor is intelligent enough to understand tension when he sees it, but not stupid enough to ask direct questions about the Smirnov family and the abrupt left turn it took after my father died, publicly.

“Your brother’s engagement party,” he says slowly. “This is related.”

“Yes.”

Victor exhales carefully through his nose. “And what exactly would you like the article to say?”

I smile faintly. “Something sentimental.”

That confuses him more.

“The return of the prodigal son,” I continue smoothly. “Family reunited during a time of celebration. Older brother returns home after years building an international business empire.”

Victor stares at me. Then laughs once nervously. “You want warmth.”

“I want visibility.”

The distinction matters. I don’t want anyone making the mistake that I’m here to make amends with my demon of a brother.

Andrei built his political career carefully. Controlled, sanitized. A public image polished until nobody remembered the blood underneath our family name. The truth is, Andrei is just as dirty as I am deep down inside. He just hides it better.