Wicked Prince (Koalistia Bratva 4)

An immeasurable silence stretched after my outburst, my chest heaving still from the emotions so rampant throughout me. Papa Koalistia stared at me with an unfathomable expression though, all trace of emotion locked up behind that barricade of blandness. I knew then where Dmitry had gotten that from.

“You speak very familiarly of my son,” he finally said, breaking the silence thoughtfully. “You are, I think, not the same couple that darkened my door several weeks past. Nyet. I think you are in alliance now, not just married. Interesting.” There was no emotion at all in his tone, no leaning to show which way he might possibly feel about what he was saying, just a very frank, assessing look in his eyes.

“He is my husband,” I bit back icily as I tried to reign in my temper.

“Da, he is your husband, but he is my son. You may know parts of him I do not. Perhaps he takes you into his confidence, shares soft secrets with you. But soft does not belong in Bratva. Soft does not do him service. You think whatever you want; he will be whatever man he chooses to be. But he will follow orders, and you will learn your place in the order of things. Hopefully without having to do so hard way, but that is up to you.”

He tilted his head with a cold, unblinking stare. I’d drawn similarities between him and Dmitry, but even in doing so, I’d found nothing of value within him as a person. As a whole, this man before me was unworthy of the loyalty that so many had professed to have for him. This man, weak and coughing, was unworthy even of his son’s devotion. If his son had been any other man, or meant even the slightest bit less to me, I might have said something.

It was my love for Dmitry that stayed my tongue. Those unspoken words were like bitter arsenic along the lining of my mouth as I tried to free my features of emotion as successfully as Papa Koalistia.

“Da, now you hold your tongue. . . . But Manya Sorokin-Koalistia, your eyes still talk. Very like my late wife’s, like I said. The rest of you may be cold, silver ice—but those eyes are burning coal, and they give way to that fire you try to hold behind your teeth. I see it, even now.” He almost sounded thoughtful, almost proud, as he smiled from his throne of pillows. “You want to disagree with me . . . maybe, even, you hate me. You would not be the first. Nyet, not even the hundredth.”

He shifted, leaning his head back against the chair as if speaking this intensely were tiring him. “You will see though. My genes are strong, that boy is strong. You are right, I raised him—and Manya, blood will always win out.”