More importantly, it keeps the memories at bay.
When I’ve had enough, I dry off quickly and pull on a pair of dark pants and a long-sleeved henley shirt. My father prefers that I wear suits to these meetings, but I deliberately avoid them.
Fuck what he wants from me.
No one tells me what to do—not even my father.
Even if he is the don of the Kovalyov Bratva.
I roll up the sleeves, displaying the tattoos that encircle my arms. My Rolex reads eight fifty-six in the evening—I’ve slept the whole day away—which means my ride will be pulling up in front of the building in exactly four minutes.
Father is never late.
I head downstairs to the lobby in my personal elevator. The elevator doors peel apart in the main foyer to reveal a straight-line path towards the glass entrance of the building.
“Good morning, Mr. Kovalyov,” the concierge greets, just as I spot the top-of-the-line Range Rover that my father favors pulling up in front of the building.
There’s no denying the luxury SUV is a sleek ride. Even at first glance, it’s intimidating as fuck. And that’s without knowing about the performance tread tires, the bulletproof ballistic glass windshield, or the high-powered automatic weapons stashed in various compartments around the vehicle.
That’s all by design. My father is not one for traveling unprotected.
In his case, it is more than justified. When you’ve survived as many assassination attempts as he has, investing in proper protection just makes good business sense.
I see only my own reflection in the tinted window before I open the back door and duck into the car.
My father and uncle are waiting for me inside, both dressed in sharp gray suits and open-collared white shirts.
When they were younger men, it was obvious to anyone that Stanislav and Budimir Kovalyov were brothers. They had the same square jawline and hollowed-in cheekbones that I inherited.
The same bushy eyebrows. The same beer bellies. And the same intolerance for disrespect.
But as they’ve aged, they’ve begun to look less and less similar. My father, Stanislav, has shrank into himself, developing a slight hunch that has him looking up at the world through narrowed eyes.
Five years ago, his lustrous black hair fell out, a by-product of the cancer treatment. When it grew back, it came in stark white.
None of this has made him less frightening, however. He is still the don of the Kovalyov Bratva. And he still wears that title like a crown of gold.
With his curly hair and easy smile, Uncle Budimir is less imposing. But there’s a coldness in him that runs deep. He’s ruthless in a way that my father isn’t. The kind of man who is cruel just for sport, whereas my father is cruel only out of necessity.
“You look like shit,” my uncle remarks with a booming laugh.
I sigh as I slide into my seat. “Good to see you, too, Uncle.”
“Budimir is right. And you did not wear a suit,” Stanislav observes, his lips pursed up with displeasure. Thirty years in America, but his Russian accent is still thick and well-preserved.
“I don’t want to feel like I’m being strangled by a tie all night.”
“It’s not about what you want,” Budimir replies coolly. His accent is slight. Only the faintest hint of the motherland still lingers. “Your father prefers you dress the part.”
I grit my teeth. “And what part is that, Uncle?”
“You are the heir to the Kovalyov Bratva—”
“You are not a child anymore, Artem,” Stanislav interrupts, his tone impatient.
Budimir shuts his mouth immediately. I’ve seen this happen so many times that it doesn’t stand out to me anymore. Stanislav is the older brother. He is the don. It’s expected that everyone else takes a back seat whenever he walks into the room.
But I’ve started to notice little things about my uncle lately. In particular, the way his mouth turns down at the corners every time my father cuts him off or overrules him.
Like it’s eating him up inside.
“So nice of you to notice, Father,” I answer sarcastically, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from my tone. “Seeing as how I’m thirty as of last month.”
Stanislav’s eyes narrow on me. “It takes more than age to be a man, my son.”
No one else says a word for the rest of the ride. We pull up at the back entrance of The Siren, the Bratva-owned nightclub where tonight’s meeting is taking place.
“Who will be at the meeting?” I ask, changing the subject.
Budimir answers first. “Don Maggadino and his sons. Gallo. Brooklier. And Dragna.”
“Dragna?” I repeat in surprise, sitting up a little straighter and turning to my father. “You actually invited him?”
“This is a meeting for all the cartels that answer to me,” Stanislav says, glancing out the window. “Dragna answers to me. Therefore, he will be at the meeting.”
“Yeah? Then why didn’t he tell you about the drug shipment from the Antonio cartel he was trying to import without our approval?”
A vein across his forehead pops a little but he keeps looking out the window. “I dealt with that.”
Budimir gestures for me to keep quiet. I ignore him. I’m short on patience this morning.
“He was trying to cheat you out of four million dollars!” I snap. “You’re going to reward that disloyalty by including him in a meeting? At the very least, he should be excluded from the inner circle for a while. See if that improves his attitude.”
My father sighs. “That would humiliate and offend him.”
“That is the fucking point,” I growl.
At last, Stanislav turns his gaze on me, but his expression is icy. “Being the don is not just about throwing your weight and watching the ants scatter to the wind, Artem. Diplomacy is needed. Intelligence is needed. Brute force is never enough to hold power.”
I’ve heard variations of this speech before.
Just like always, it takes everything I have not to roll my eyes.
“So that’s it?” I persist. “You’re going to look the other way and let him walk all over you?”
At that, my father’s eyes spark with a fiery anger
