Ivory Ashes

Chapter 5 Episode 5

I meant what I told her last night: I didn’t walk into this suite last night to save her.

I was on this path long before she made her dirty deal with my brother.

The moment I lost Alyona and our daughter, I knew I was done being the spare to my brother’s heir. I was done waiting in the shadows while someone else called the shots. I was never going to let anyone else have the power to hold my family’s fate in their hands.

I swore that much as I stood over my family’s graves. Even as I swore I’d never have another family again.

Add “sworn bachelorhood” to the long list of reasons why I have no interest in taking Trofim’s place at the altar today. I pledged my love, ‘til death do us part.

Then death parted us and took my wife and daughter with it.

One pretty woman moaning my name is not going to change my mind about the things I vowed while I stood over the corpses of my wife and daughter. Even if I go to my grave thinking about the way Viviana milked my orgasm out of me.

I’m sure six months without s*x is like a lifetime for you.

It wasn’t. I did just fine for two and a half years.

The last six months, however, have dragged.

Hell, maybe I solved two problems last night. Trofim is out of the line of succession and Viviana should be out of my system.

I told her I only wanted one thing from her. The only thing I’ve wanted for six months. The thing I imagined every time I wrapped my hand around my c**k.

Now, it’s time to claim the rest of what is mine.

My father is sitting behind his desk when I walk through the door. It’s barely dawn, but he’s in a white button-down and an undone tuxedo tie. The suit jacket he’s planning to wear to the wedding I just canceled is hanging from a hook behind him.

He doesn’t look up from the letter he’s writing as I enter. Someone probably warned him I was heading this way already. He knows it’s me. He just doesn’t care.

Until I drop Trofim’s signet ring on his desk.

He stops mid-sentence. Stares down at it. Sits back.

Then he carefully picks up the ring with liver-spotted fingers that have grown shakier over the years and holds it to the lamplight. A spot of blood I didn’t notice is dried into the grooves of the Novikov family crest. It was hard to inspect the ring too closely while it was deep inside of Viviana.

I bite back a rare smile when I realize I finger-f****d my brother’s fiancée with the ring I won from him. It’s almost poetic.

My father leans back in his chair and looks at me for the first time. He sighs, tired. “Is he dead?”

“As far as you’re concerned, he might as well be. You’re never going to see him again.”

Iakov rolls his lips together and places the ring in the center of his desk. “What’s the plan now?”

Are you going to kill me, too? The question is layered there, unspoken.

I could. It’s been done before. A hostile takeover from within is the kind of patricidal s**t that happens when power is passed to the person who happened to be born first rather than the person who is more qualified to wear the crown.

I overpowered Trofim. I stripped the ring off of his finger.

“I’m going to wear that ring and become the next pakhan.”

He nods. “And when will that be? My death?”

He’s speaking evenly, staying calm. He’s hiding it well, but he’s terrified. Yet another sign that the sun is setting on his leadership.

The bloodstained legend who has run this Bratva for the last three decades wouldn’t sit there and ask when he was going to die. He’d stand up and fight. But my father doesn’t even bother calling for the guards I know are stationed nearby. He sees the writing on the wall, clear as day.

“I’m not going to kill you unless I have to.”

His shoulders ease down from around his ears. If he’s sad about his oldest son’s fate, he doesn’t show it. For thirty-one years, my father prepared the way for Trofim. He poured everything he had into making him a great leader. Now, he doesn’t even shed a tear.

I never expected him to. Death is a cruel fact of our world. If you’re powerful enough to avoid it yourself, then you’ll live long enough to see everyone you care about die. One way or another, it takes everything from you.

“I didn’t even have to fight him,” I add. “He was too busy beating his fiancée to see me coming and too drunk to resist. I exiled him. With the promise to kill him if he ever returns.”

He arches a graying brow. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill him for hitting Viviana. You’ve always had a tender spot for that kind of thing.”

“You’re confusing me with Anatoly.”

My father snorts. “I wouldn’t insult you like that. It’s always been you and Trofim. Now… I suppose it’s just you.”

That’s what it takes to earn my father’s respect: don’t be born a bastard like Anatoly and don’t be overthrown like Trofim. Who knew a father’s love could be so fickle?

“You’re right. It is just me. Which is why you are going to begin the process of handing over power to me.”

“You think you’re ready.” It’s a statement, not a question. But I hear the doubt in his voice.

“I’m ready to take the Bratva to new heights. I’m ready to demand respect.”

“That’s what we’ve been doing for⁠—”

“Not with f*****g pageantry and politics, but with strength. Raw power.”

He leans back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. “How will you do that?”

If there was any chance my father could wrench power away from me and keep control, I wouldn’t say a word. But he knows it’s already over.

“I’m going to consolidate the entire North American gunrunning market under our control.”

His cool mask cracks under his surprise. “How?”

“I’ll worry about how,” I snap. “The only thing you need to know is that I’m going to make our family richer than you ever have. If you keep things peaceful, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. If not…”

I don’t need to finish the rest. This is his best option. He knows it. I know it. The only alternative is that I kill him now.

So he nods. “Things will need to be arranged. Plans unmade. I assume I’m not going to a wedding this afternoon.”

“It’s been canceled,” I confirm.

He starts to unbutton his sleeves. “What happened to the girl, then? The bride?”

Does he even know her name? My father was ready to sign Viviana up for a lifetime of suffering with Trofim and he doesn’t even bother with her name.

The realization chafes, but I ignore it. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.

In every way that matters, Viviana is dead. That’s all my father needs to know.

“That’s just as well.” He sighs. “One less thing.”

“Is there a body to dispose of?” Raoul asks the moment I step out of my father’s office. He isn’t smiling—he never is—but I see the hopeful gleam in his dark eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mikhail wouldn’t have killed Dad without me.” Anatoly elbows him in the side. Then doubt flickers across his face. He turns to me. “Right? Please tell me you didn’t kill him, Mikhail.”

He sighs. “Good. I want to watch.”

I’d hate my father a lot more for acting like Anatoly isn’t his son if Anatoly didn’t hate him so much. The only thing he ever felt towards the man who fathered us both is resigned loyalty. The kind of loyalty that bides its time. Waiting for the moment it can turn. When that day comes, all the training Anatoly has gathered will be aimed directly at our father.

It’ll be well earned. Our father all but fed Anatoly’s mother to Trofim. He let Trofim kill her to secure his own ascendency.

Those kind of twisted family dynamics can really f**k a guy up. I’m just glad that guy in question is on my side.

The moment Trofim killed Anatoly’s mom, my allegiances were set.

For my father, there is only me.

For me, there is Anatoly and Raoul.

I walk past them down the hall and they fall into line behind me. “Where is Trofim?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Airport, last time we saw him,” Raoul says. “He booked the first flight out to Moscow.”

Anatoly snorts. “Our guards saw him arguing with the desk to upgrade him to first class. Poor baby is exiled to the tundra for the rest of his days, but God forbid he fly coach.”

“I would have lent him the private jet. So long as he’s gone, I don’t care.”

“He’s gone. Dad is out of the way.” Anatoly slings an arm over my shoulders. “Who would’ve thought a bastard like me would be the right-hand man to the pakhan?”

“I’m not the pakhan yet.”

“Good as,” Raoul says quietly. “You’ve always been pakhan to me.”

Not always. But since the moment Raoul and I met three years ago, he’s looked up to me.

It has a lot to do with me not killing him on sight.