Page 37 of Savage Boss
I’d already taken a shot of vodka when the maître d’ showed Andrey Mikhailov to my table. I sit, as always, facing the door. I see Natasha slip up to the bar. Whether she’s here for her brother or for me, I do not know.
Andrey sits opposite me, perfectly tailored and impeccably dressed, looking for all the world like a playboy philanthropist waiting for me to make my pitch. He’s always appreciated a dramatic flair.
“So I imagine this is about the offer we made regarding a strategic alliance between ourfamilies.” Andrey doesn’t have to use coded language—nearly everyone here is part of the Smirnov Bratva. “I imagine you have a counteroffer after thinking about it for a bit. I’m here to listen.”
A server delivers his drink, something clear and stiff without garnish. He picks it up and settles back in his chair, one leg draped over the other, like a king waiting for a lesser enemy to grace him with goods.
Meanwhile, my knuckles are turning white against the rich mahogany of the table edge I’m gripping. I’m trying to anchor myself so I don’t go after him and wipe that self-satisfied grin off his face.
It doesn’t escape my mind that I could end him right here. All it would take is a leap across the table—so fast Andrey wouldn’t know what was happening—snapping his neck and taking the revenge I’ve wanted all these years.
But I’m in a restaurant full of witnesses, the police and Feds are already on my tail, and it wouldincitea war with the Mikhailov Bratva.
Despite all of that, I so badly want to snap the fucking bastard’s neck for killing Lauren and our son. That would be it—my life’s work, my revenge finally complete. I could die happy, knowing that Andrey Mikhailov was no longer in the world.
Except Lauren would never have wanted that for me. And I suspect Clara wouldn’t either, as much as I hate to admit that it matters to me. That is theonlything keeping the man sitting across the table from me alive.
“You truly must have lost your mind if you think I would at all entertain your offer.” The words roll off my tongue like ice cracking. “We are not here to discuss delusional alliances that we both know would be a thinly veiled attempt to take over mybratva. No, Andrey, we’re discussing the license you’ve taken.”
I watch Andrey closely: every eye movement, every breath, every minute adjustment. This is the real danger of thepakhanof the Mikhailov Bratva—he is a psychological blank canvas, a polishedsurface that reflects only what he wants the world to see, a mask covering the rest.
To everyone else, he is a playboy with a bright smile and perfectly tousled hair, a successful businessman, the other half of the empire Natasha runs.
But I know that canvas is painted over in blood. I know the evil that runs beneath that tailored Armani suit.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Andrey’s voice is smooth as he plays dumb, his eyebrows knitted slightly in confusion. “License for what, exactly? If this concerns the recent market adjustments that are affecting your?—”
“I know about the coffee shop.” I cut him off, my voice dropping, vibrating with anger that I struggle to contain. “I know you went to see Clara Benson. I know you tried to poison her against me—Pavel witnessed the entire thing.”
The mask holds. His eyes—the color of a deep, midwinter day in St. Petersburg—widen slightly in what is meant to be surprise, but I recognize the expression for the rehearsed movement it is.
“Clara Benson?” he repeats, as if struggling to place the name. “Oh, yes. Natasha mentioned something about her. The newest member of your legal team, if I remember correctly. And your girlfriend, if you have your trained watchdog keeping tabs on her. Now, that’s a surprise.”
A smile spreads on his face that is as ghastly as it is vicious, and it takes every ounce of my self-control to stay in my seat.
“I ran into her at a coffee shop on Saturday morning. I was so curious after Natasha’s story that I couldn’t help myself—I found her on the company website, of course, no further digging on mypart. It has been such a long time, and we honestly thought you would never find someone after, well, you know?—”
“Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth,” I hiss, my tone deadly.
The spark in Andrey’s eyes tells me he’s enjoying this.
“I wouldn’t dream of speaking her name.” His Cheshire Cat grin causes me to ball my fists in my lap. “But back to Clara Benson. I enjoyed her. It was purely coincidental, just luck on my part. We spoke briefly, mostly about corporate law. If I mentioned anything about your—” he pauses and holds my gaze, “—professional proclivities, Dmitri, it was only in passing.”
“You really think I believe your bullshit?”
Andrey’s shoulders rise and fall in an easy shrug before he shifts slightly, adopting a posture of condescending concern. “She’s new to our world, Dmitri. Have you spoken to her about it yet? I merely offered a word of caution. It’s a harsh environment we run in, my friend.” He gives me a sideways look, his mouth flattening into a frown. “Don’t you think she’s too delicate for our world, Dmitri? Have you thought about that, about what claiming her will do? I was merely warning her what it means to be with you, suggesting that she look out for herself.”
His hypocrisy is a blow, like a physical punch in the gut. His story could almost be believable, warning an innocent woman from “the outside,” yet all the while undermining me. His arrogance is implausible. Andrey must suspect how much Clara means to me. He’s watching. Andrey Mikhailov is always watching, waiting, testing, scheming.
I fight the impulse to shatter his perfect composure and his jaw; to grab the heavy silver carafe off the table and see what kind of damage it would do to his skull.
This is the last thing I need right now,the thought flashes through the red haze of my rage.
The bratva council is meeting soon, closer with every tick of my watch, and I need every shred of my energy and focus on securing my power on the council. I can’t do that while the mole is still out there making trouble for me, quietly ripping apart the wires that hold together my legal, and illegal, operations.
I need to be the calm, cool, detachedpakhanI usually am. But tonight, all I see is the image of Andrey, slithering up to Clara, smiling that false smile, and trying to scare her away from me. It ignites something primal within, something I fear I may not be able to contain.
I cannot let this slide. I cannot let Andrey get away with such brazen actions. I cannot let him think he can put Clara in his dangerous sights. I must draw the line here; it’s necessary.
