Champagne Venom

Chapter 3 Episode 3

“No, he’s a target,” I remind her. “We cannot appear weak. Even here, even now, we are being watched. Maksim didn’t drop dead of a heart attack, Niki—he was murdered. As we speak, Petyr Ivanov is probably plotting new ways to chip away at our family.”

She exhales. I can feel our shared grief in that sigh. “You’re right. f**k, I hate it when you’re right.” Straightening herself up, she fixes her hair and puts her mafia princess face back on. “Very well. I will do my part.”

She places her hand on my arm again, not caring how much I hate the intimacy. It doesn’t last long. Just one fleeting millisecond of contact before she pulls back and walks to where our mother is now standing with Ilya.

I look around and spot Ilya’s mother—Cyrille, my brother’s widow—in the entrance hall.

The mourners around her disappear like mist meeting the sun when they see me coming. Cyrille gives me a shaky smile that betrays just how much today is stealing from her. “Hi, Misha.”

“The car is here to take you home.”

“To take me—” She shakes her head, realizing that can’t be right. “Nessa’s home, you mean.”

I nod. “In time, it will start to feel like yours.”

Her blue eyes are clear, but her nose is uncharacteristically red. “My home was with your brother. Now that he’s gone, I don’t have one anymore. So your mother’s house is as good as any, I guess.”

“I will take care of you, Cyrille. You and Ilya are family.”

It’s the most assurance I can give her, pitiful as it is. She takes no comfort in it. With a bleak nod, she walks down the steps toward the armored black sedan waiting in front of the building.

A second later, Mama appears at my side. “It’s funny,” she observes as she looks me up and down. “I never thought I’d see you in this position. But now that we’re here, you look like you were made for it.”

I frown. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

She almost smiles. Almost, but not quite. “I don’t expect you to come home right away. But after the council meeting, after things are settled… do try.”

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. All I want right now is a strong drink and my bachelor pad in the city.

But as of eleven hours ago, I no longer have a bachelor pad in the city. What I have is what I inherited.

And a giant f*****g target on my back.

“Ready, boss?” my best friend Konstantin asks as he takes my mother’s place at my side.

“Don Orlov, then?” I shoot him a glare that makes his smirk wither. “Sorry, man. You know I’m not good at funerals.”

My cousin’s coping mechanism is humor. He’s still never quite learned when he ought to keep it tucked away.

“We’re one dysfunctional family, aren’t we?” I mutter under my breath. Then I shake my head in dismay. “Come on. The men will have gathered by now. Time to get this over with.”

“The Crimson Orchid,” Konstantin mutters, looking around the room with incredulity. “Really?”

I understand his skepticism. The back room of the restaurant is small, sparse, understated. The Orlov Bratva owns a hundred properties more impressive than this one. But we’re here for a reason.

“It’s where my father hosted his first meeting as don,” I inform him. “My brother, too.”

I don’t tell him this, but we’re also here because it just feels right. I wasn’t around when my father held his first council, but I watched my brother navigate this same chaos after our father’s death. It’s funny, in a grim sort of way—Maksim is six feet beneath the earth right now, and I’m still following in his footsteps.

“Don Orlov,” Klim Kulikov greets as he walks into the room.

He’s followed by the five other men I’ve appointed as my Vors. All of them served my brother. All of them will serve me, too.

Konstantin takes his seat beside me. He is the only change I made to the status quo. This will be his first sit-in at a don’s council. The older men pretend not to eye him, but I don’t miss the questioning glances, the furtive looks.

Shuffling feet and scraping chairs fill the room as the seven of us take our seats. The table is round, which was an intentional choice. Maksim told me a long time ago that it is easier to gain respect if you make your men feel like your equals.

Then again, he also told me that a don’s word was law.

I’m still not sure if there’s room for both their opinions and mine. I suppose we’ll find out in a moment.

“You all made your pledges of fealty to my brother,” I begin. “You swore to follow him until the end of your lives or the end of his. As of three days ago, those vows have been upheld. But now, I’m asking you to make another one. To me.”

Vasily Novikov is the first to turn his dark gaze on me. “You are the don’s brother and the rightful heir to the throne of the Bratva. There is no question of our loyalty to you, sir.”

The others follow along with similar sentiments. I greet each one with a solemn nod. I figured they would support me, but it’s reassuring to hear it out loud. I’ll need their help in the coming days. Petyr Ivanov will not die easily.

Danil Vinogradov is the last to offer his oath. “Don Orlov?” he ventures hesitantly once he’s made his pledge.

I can’t decide if the words grate against my nerves because of his raspy voice or the title he chose.

Three days ago, I was simply “Misha.”

The idea of Misha is dead.

“Speak freely,” I tell him.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful in moving onto business so quickly in your time of grief, but there are some things that need discussing. Our position now is fragile. We need to re-establish our strength and fortify our defenses.”

“What we need is to hit back,” Klim hisses before I can answer. “Petyr Ivanov killed our don. That is an open declaration of war. It must be met in kind.”

“So what you’re proposing is a suicide mission,” Konstantin interjects.

Klim’s eyes narrow. As the eldest man in the room, no doubt he’s not thrilled about being questioned by the newest member of the circle. “What I’m proposing is necessary.”

“What you’re proposing is stupid,” Konstantin mocks.

“Enough.” I don’t even have to raise my voice. The moment I speak, the room falls silent and every pair of eyes turns to me. “You are both right. We cannot let this go unanswered. But the Ivanovs are too strong at the moment. It’s the reason Petyr made such a bold move against us. He knew he had the upper hand.”

“So what do you suggest?” Klim asks.

“I suggest a shadow war. We fight quietly. We peel open their defenses with scalpels, not swords. We buy up their resources. We bring them to their knees without them even knowing it. And when they’re sufficiently weakened, that’s when we cut off their heads.”

Isaak Egorov leans forward. “What you’re describing sounds like a hostile takeover.”

I nod. “That is precisely what I’m describing. We will dismantle them from the inside. The most difficult thing will be having patience.”

“It will also give us time to shore up our defenses,” Yuri muses. “Sir, if I may be so bold, perhaps one of the best ways to do that would be… with a strategic partnership. The kind that demonstrates the extent of our reach. An unassailable show of resources.”

For a moment, I wonder why everyone is looking at me. Then it clicks in my head what Yuri is suggesting.

My expression falls flat. “No.”

“I just buried my brother. I’m a little full-up on ceremony at the moment.”

“Not now, of course,” Klim demurs. “But… in the near future, perhaps? A marriage alliance will not only bring us added strength; it will also ensure an heir.”

Jesus, we are already talking about heirs? It makes me sick to my stomach. My brother should be here, right f*****g here—but he’s not. He’s dead, and the weight of the world is crushing me.

A mere three days ago, all of this would have seemed like a hilarious fever dream.

Now, it’s all sickeningly real.

“Is a threat to you,” Yuri cuts in firmly. “Unless you would consider Cyrille Orlov as a bride…? Marrying her would counteract the possibility of a splinter faction rallying around the boy.”

I look around the table, jaw clenched tight. Konstantin is the only one who remains pointedly silent. If they’d brought this up with him beforehand, he’d have been able to warn them not to mention it.

“You want me to marry my newly widowed sister-in-law as a political ploy?” My voice is low, gravelly, dangerous.

“There will be men within the Bratva who wish to throw their support behind the son of the deceased don, not the brother,” Klim warns carefully.

His implication is obvious. Schism. Mutiny. Civil f*****g war.

I grimace. “The son in question is currently nine years old. If they wish to do that, they’re welcome to. They’ll find him less interested in hostile takeovers and more interested in video games.”