Chapter Two

 

Ivan wandered through the streets, not really paying attention to where he was going. He was of two minds about this whole thing.

The voice in his head that sounded a hell of a lot like his father was telling him that he needed to stay independent. That he needed to stand on his own two feet and that if he bowed to someone else now, who knew who else he’d have to kowtow to at the end of the day?

Seize what you have to, that voice told him. You’re a Sokolov, for heaven’s sake. Get off your fucking ass and just take what you want. Establish yourself.

But that way could only lead to destruction, couldn’t it? He couldn’t afford to get into a tussle with another, more powerful family. They had barely the manpower as it was and their main lieutenant and boss were both gone.

The other voice in his head—the one that sounded like Viktor—told him to reach out. What was there to be gained by being stubborn? Would he rather survive or go down in a blaze of glory?

The idea of a blaze of glory was tempting but not an option, not really. If it was just him? Maybe. But not when he had the lives of so many others to consider.

It was so difficult, thinking of other people. Not that Ivan was selfish, or at least he didn’t like to think that he was. But making every decision with precision, knowing that if he stepped wrong, dozens of his people could die?

It was a hell of a burden.

But Viktor would be too soft about it, too honest. He’d put faith in the person he was striking the bargain with and Ivan couldn’t do that. There had to be some kind of compromise he could strike with himself, some way to retain his pride and ensure the survival of the family.

He saw bright lights and paused. It had gotten dark around him, although he hadn’t really noticed until he saw the blinding lights pouring out of the bar and heard the distinctive clatter of mugs hitting each other and the wooden countertop.

Maybe a drink would be just what he needed. Ivan squinted up at the sign. The Bells and Motley.

Weird name for a bar but then, Ivan wasn’t complaining so long as they sold good alcohol. He thought it might be a reference to something, maybe a book of some kind. Viktor was the bookworm growing up, not Ivan. Ivan had always preferred athletics to academics.

He was well aware what a cliché it was—that the more sensitive brother had ended up abandoning the bratva life and running off with a girl he was supposed to be keeping captive while Ivan, the tough one, stayed behind to carry on the family legacy. But he supposed that clichés were there for a reason.

Ivan entered the bar, savoring the wash of heat and alcohol that moved over him like an invisible, intangible wave. All bars smelled the same, if you asked him, but there was something oddly comforting in that. If you ignored the way that some of them tried to show how ‘unique’ and ‘original’ they were and focused on the essentials, you found that they were all the same.

There was the cranky bartender, over there, and then the bartender playing therapist further down, hands braced on the edge of the countertop as he listened and nodded along to someone who was talking to him.

There were the regular drunks, scattered in the darkest corner booths in the room and hunched over their drinks at the bar top. There were the usual beers, basic cocktails and other drinks… but Ivan was looking for that good old vodka.

Was it stereotypical of him? Maybe. But he’d been raised on the stuff. While he’d expanded his palate over time, trying beers and wine and all that—and he did have a fondness for a good red wine an occasionally got spectacularly drunk on ale—vodka was still his go-to.

He strolled up to the bar top, seizing a free barstool and letting out a sigh of relief. He could just disappear into the anonymous crowd here. They weren’t at the heart of Sokolov territory, so none of his men would be there. He didn’t have to play the boss. For the first time since his father’s death, he could just be.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Ivan sighed. Hopefully it was just somebody trying to reach around him to get to the bartender and not one of his soldiers looking to buddy up to the boss. Normally he liked getting to know everyone in his operation but since he’d become the boss instead of just the boss’s son, it was different. The men weren’t cozying up to him because they genuinely liked him—they were doing it out of fear, or ambition, knowing the top lieutenant spot was open and wanting in.

It was their audacity in thinking that Ivan couldn’t tell the difference that really rankled him. Just how stupid—or rather, just how addicted to brown-nosing—did they think he was?

Probably as addicted as his father, Ivan thought bitterly. He’d been his father’s loyal son all of these years, never saying a word against him and carrying out his orders to the letter, and apparently it showed. Everyone was expecting him to be just like his old man.

Well, the old man was an abusive drunk and an idiot, and Ivan was determined to do better.

He turned around, making his face look blankly polite in case it was a stranger.

It was a stranger, but the guy didn’t look all that friendly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing on our side of the tracks, Ruskie?”

The accent was Irish, and then Ivan noticed the green stud earring in his left ear.

Green was kind of a stereotypical Irish color, but when it came to quickly identifying the members of different families, it came in handy. Ivan’s men all had a scrap of red cloth on the inside of their jackets that they would flash to let someone know who they were.

The green earring was worn by the O’Gill family.

The type or style of earring didn’t matter—just that it was green and in the left ear.

What the hell was an O’Gill person doing in a Sokolov bar?

And then the rest of what the guy had said caught up with him. Ivan’s stomach plummeted.

He looked around and saw at least five other men with green earrings.

He’d accidentally wandered out of his own territory and into O’Gill territory, lost in his thoughts—and was now standing smack in the middle of what looked like the makings of a very bad bar fight.

Well, fuck.