Midnight Oath (Tasarov Bratva 1)

ADRIK

"Stay here."

I start to stand, but Emery grabs my arm. "No! Don't."

I shake her off. "I will not hide from Malcolm fucking Waters. I told him he needed to keep his distance. I need to let him know he's failing."

"But…" She looks to Isabella, who is still pointing out items on the dessert menu and chattering, and then back to me. "Can't we just have a nice lunch and forget it?"

For a quarter of a second, I let myself consider that possibility. A world where I could have an uneventful lunch with my fiancée and her daughter. A world where I didn't have enemies to vanquish, an empire to run.

A fucking fantasy is what it is. Not even worth wasting my time on.

"No. Don’t move. I'll be back."

I drop my napkin on my chair and stride across the restaurant. Our waitress tries to stop me as I pass the kitchen door.

“Is everything okay with your meal, Mr. Tasarov?” she asks. “I was just coming to take your dessert orders.”

I blow past her without a word.

Malcolm sees me coming. He shifts in his seat as I approach, but he does his best to look unruffled. Years on the campaign trail have served him fairly well, it seems.

I stop at the edge of his table. "Dining alone?"

"Unless you'd like to join me," he says, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. "I'm actually surprised to see you out and about, under the circumstances."

"Do you mean the circumstance where I told you to keep your distance or I'd cut your fucking throat?" I ask, keeping my voice calm and pleasant. "Because to be honest, Malcolm, I'm surprised, too. I thought my instructions were pretty clear."

He chuckles, but there is no humor in it. The memory of the jagged bottle pressed to his throat is probably still too fresh in his mind.

"I was referring to the illness in the family,” he clarifies. “Your father.”

I don’t move, but I feel the shift. The ever-so-slight tilt of favor in his direction.

He knows my father is ill.

Which means the Volandris know, too.

Precisely how much they know is what matters now.

“You shouldn’t be surprised to see me. My father hardly needs me to sit at home all day and wipe his ass,” I say.

“Of course not. But it’s quite a bit worse than you’re letting on, isn’t it?” Malcolm leans in. His voice is soft even though I can tell he wants to scream his words from a mountaintop. "The word is that it's terminal. Allow me to offer my deepest condolences."

Fuck me.

I wanted Malcolm to realize that showing his face was a drastic mistake. An overreach on his part, one that will be paid back in pain. I wouldn’t put it past him to think too highly of his own invincibility. You don’t get into politics with a small ego, after all.

But the Volandris know my father is dying. They know the Tasarov Bratva is about to experience a power shift. And so I’m forced to conclude that they’re doing the only logical thing to do in a situation like that.

Go for the throat.

“Keep your condolences. I’ll accept congratulations,” I drawl as if I’m unaffected, as if every gear in my head isn’t whirling viciously.

Malcolm winces. “That’s a bit harsh. Dancing on your daddy’s grave, no?”

“Death is a natural part of life. And an imminent part of yours, if you don’t clear out.”

He chuckles sadly. “I hoped fatherhood had softened you. Seeing you have your little tea party over there, I thought maybe we could let bygones be bygones. After all, I’m not a threat.”

“No one ever said you were a threat,” I snap. “You don’t swat a fly because it’s a threat; you swat it because it’s a nuisance. You’re a pest, Waters. Nothing more.”

He tilts his head and looks up at me as if seeing me in a new light. “You really do have it all now, don’t you, Mr. Tasarov? The power, the woman… the woman’s money. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“I have money of my own.”

“Then why bother with her?” Malcolm asks, leaning forward.

I can tell he’s genuinely curious. Which makes this annoyance one percent more enjoyable for me.

I smile down at him. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he assures me quickly. “But you don’t strike me as the kind of man who does things for no reason. Ergo, you must have a reason. Why is the trust fund baby so important if you don’t need her trust fund?”

“This has been bothering you, hasn’t it?” I observe. “Why I did it. Why I embarrassed you by taking your fiancée. I’m curious—what have you been telling people? How have you been explaining it?”

His doughy lips press together. I can see the tension in his body even as he tries to hide it.

“It must have been killing you,” I muse. “To be at my party one minute with a beautiful date on your arm. And the next, she’s gone with me. It must be eating you up inside.”

“A lot has changed since that night, Tasarov,” he hisses.

I shrug. “Maybe. But the memory of it still stings, doesn’t it? So I’d say not quite enough has changed. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

The senator sits tall and clears his throat. He’s trying to regain some semblance of control. He looks past me to where Emery and Isabella are sitting.

“You know, maybe I’ll go say hello,” he says, lumbering to his feet.

My arm is a bar across his chest, holding him back. “Only if you have a death wish.”

We’re drawing eyes now. People starting to stare. Volandris on his side or not, Senator Waters still has a reputation to maintain. A public brawl with a rich philanthropist wouldn’t do him any favors in the polls.

He holds up his hands and steps back. “I don’t want any trouble with you, Adrik. And I’m not here to work out our issues. I just think the two of us have overlapping interests.”

“Your interest in my fiancée ended the moment she became my fiancée.”

“Not her,” he says, chuckling like I missed the joke. “Power, Adrik. We both want power.”

I roll my eyes. “Wrong. You want power. I already have it.”

“For now.”

“For fuck’s sake, Waters, do the Volandris know you’re out here flaunting their plans like you’re a flag twirler in a goddamn parade?”

“How am I supposed to make a deal with you if you don’t understand the stakes?” he asks.

I arch a brow. “They must not be paying you very well if you’re looking to make a deal with me.”

He ignores that and looks into my eyes. “Give her back.”

I bark a laugh in his face. “You must be joking.”

“You’ve already said you don’t need her money. You have more than enough of your own. And if it’s a woman you need, I’m certain a man of your particular… charm…could find one without a crippled, runty bastard attached.”

Rage. White-hot and boiling. That’s what I feel surging up inside of me like a fucking solar flare.

In my younger days—hell, even just a few weeks ago—I would’ve unleashed it. Gutted him like a pig here and now. I don’t give a damn who’s watching or what the consequences would be. No one talks about the people under my protection like that.

But Malcolm is right about one thing: things have changed since that night.

For all of us.