Page 18 of Forced Mafia Bride
“I don’t need your pity, O’Connor. Thank you for the purse.”
“What I feel right now is far from pity, Rosalyn.”
Maybe it was the gentle way he called my name or the furious flickers of anger dancing in his eyes that made me burst like an exhausted balloon retaining water. I didn’t prod to understand the reason for his anger. A man like Aiden was as loyal as they came. He said and did no evil against either of my brothers. However, he had taken extraconsiderationin matters where I was concerned.
There was no strength to even thank him, for mirroring my hurt and showing silent empathy. I turned around and walked away.
Chapter 8 – Nikolai
“Ace did good with this place. He probably didn’t want to answer queries concerning the money Niko put into it.”
Anatoly laughed, baring full teeth as he threw his head back to take down a shot from a full tumbler, and though he found it amusing, Timur barely allowed a smile to grow on his face while he reshuffled the crystal-flared shooter glasses on the table to refill them. His biceps flexed under his coffee-brown suit, and the dancing lights from the flashbulbs bounced off his buzz cut.
The mood was light, the energy was high, and it made the men loosen up a bit.
“How much did he give ‘em?”
“Almost a hundred grand.”
Timur was impressed, and this time, he didn’t hide it. He straightened on the velvety sofa with a smug grin. Anatoly stretched for another refill. “He’s practically the owner.”
“You could say that.”
I glanced at the Rolex strapped on my wrist, and my eyes snapped to them. “You both know I am in the same fucking room, right?”
Strobe lights pulsed like a frenetic heartbeat, casting an otherworldly glow over the VIP lounge. The music was alive, the deep bass of the music throbbing like a heartbeat and the drums pounding out a hypnotic rhythm. Anatoly shook his head, not meaning any disrespect.
“I’m just letting him feel the taste of your power.” It was strange to see the big guy teasing in a gruff voice. “Soon, thePahkanis going to entrust more responsibilities into your hands because everyone knows you’re doing a great job.”
Hearing that, Timur snickered, and I flipped him the middle finger. He rolled his eyes and tipped his drink at me, transporting us back to past times.
No one would have believed that I wiped the snot from this man’s nose when we were kids. This same man with shoulders and a chest twice my size.
While the adults attended to pressing matters, Timur and I were left alone in the hands of maids to channel our inner child. There was nothing we didn’t do together. We only had two years between us, but that had always been for records. We were the closest cousins in the bunch.
With the attention on Egor, mingling with the older men, and executing business, Timur and I had more time to explore the clubs,women, and anything else we could blame on youthful exuberance.
Once, we’d tried Formula One racing, and when that went down rather roughly, we bought superbikes. Our schedules weren’t as strict as the older male relatives, so more often than not, we lost track of time and got queried for being the irresponsible duo. But when our strengths were tested, there was nothing we couldn’t handle.
Until we both grew up.
Timur was sent off to Mexico to monitor our operations there, and Egor needed me here in L.A. Fast-forward to the present moment, and those recollections were nothing but memories.
Like Anatoly, Timur had tiny dark tattoos inked around his fingers. A dark heart, a broken skull, and daggers. I remembered the day he got it. It was one day after we watched his father shoot a teenage girl, the bullet flying through her heart in front of her parents.
Thick red blood soaked through the midnight blue butterfly prints on her T-shirt, and we both watched silently as the life faded from her eyes.
Nothing spectacular happened after she stopped moving. Her parents screamed, cursing us, but his father only tossed his gun and was more focused on forcing out information from them with more creative techniques.
That night had been a solid reminder of who we were and what was expected from us. We weren’t good people; we didn’t donicethings. The only way we survived wasifwe decided to because the world wasn’t designed to hand us bright and hopeful dreams on a platter.
Timur handed me a glass, but I turned it down. “I’m not drinking tonight.”
On the sofa beside mine, Anatoly’s low, menacing laugh echoed through the air like a warning bell, signaling chaos to come, and before he spoke, I knew the content.
“That reminds me, Timur. There’s something else you don’t know. Trust me, this one will blow your mind.”
“Nothing has in a long time. I doubt that this one will.”