“So I think I speak from a level of experience when I say you need to take a step back and enjoy the finer things,” Dmitry continued. “The lone wolf thing looks good on you, Vlad, but it isn’t healthy. You’re thirty years old. You might want to start thinking seriously about what the next step is. This woman, Madison O’Connor?” Dmitry leaned back in his chair, rotating a pen between his fingers. “Maybe you should, you know, actually go on a date with her.”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Vlad asked as he browsed the shelves inset into the wall beside his brother. “I flirted. I invited her to dinner. She said yes.”
“What you described is not a ‘date’,” Dmitry insisted. “It’s a dressed-up interrogation. You’re pumping her for information on Dad’s death. And if you can find the time to inject some sex into the proceedings, I suppose you think you can use that to fill up your meaningful human relationships quota.”
A crude smile played across Vlad’s lips. “You’re the one who suggested I pump her.”
Dmitry laughed. “I suggested nothing of the sort. And you better clean up your language before you go to meet this girl.”
“You want me to let a woman into my life,” Vlad reminded him. “So I will do it on my own terms.”
“You aren’t going to let her in at all,” Dmitry snapped. “I don’t know why I bother trying to talk to you about anything outside of the family business. Seriously, Vlad, when are you going to figure it out? Even Maxim got out while he still could.”
“Don’t talk to me about Maxim,” Vlad warned, turning away from the shelves. The wound his other brother’s defection had left was still fresh. “You want to know why I work so much? Maybe you should ask Max who had to take over his responsibilities when he left.”
“You’re letting your obligations consume you,” Dmitry said. “It’s been worse since Dad passed. You should take this time to reassess what your life could be.”
“Father didn’t pass,” Vlad growled. He clenched his fists at his sides. “He was murdered. And if he’s anything, he’s lucky he isn’t alive to see how ungrateful his sons are.”
“You’re not the only one suffering.” Dmitry was standing now, his aggressive posture mirroring Vlad’s own. The bell above the front door chimed to indicate the arrival of a customer, but neither brother broke from their standoff. The door rang again as whoever it was quickly exited the establishment.
“Forgive me for not wanting to bury another member of my family,” Dmitry stated.
Vlad’s smile was nasty. “Is that what you want? I had no idea. From where I’m standing, it looks like all you want to do is sit behind that desk and keep jerking it to Dostoyevsky.”
“Like you fucking know who that is.”
It wasn’t a comeback worthy of a punch, but Vlad wasn’t feeling especially judicious. He flew at Dmitry, and his brother took a step out from behind his desk to meet him. Vlad’s fist cracked against the hardback cover of the book Dmitry had been pouring over, rebounding off the improvised shield. He barely registered the pain in his knuckles. He drew his fist back and gave it a shake, and Dmitry dropped the book.
His brother was on him the next instant, and Vlad’s blood sang as he found himself thrown violently back against the shelves, a shower of rare volumes raining down around him. This was the Dmitry he remembered growing up with, the one who wouldn’t hesitate to put the youngest Karev in place should he step out of line. He just hoped his brother was prepared to redecorate in red.
“Boys!” a familiar voice thundered from the front of the store.
The two brothers froze and blinked at one another. Their response to the voice was instinctive, and they halted their fight immediately, although Dmitry still had his fist clenched over Vlad’s shirt collar. Vlad raised his hands in reluctant ceasefire, and they broke apart as Igor Ivankov strode into the bookstore.
“Uncle,” Dmitry said in surprise. He took a step back from Vlad and released him. Vlad bent to retrieve the brutalized book as their uncle joined them.
Igor Ivankov was a sharply-dressed man in his middle age, brown-haired and brown-eyed, unremarkable in appearance save for an eclectic collection of pocket squares he rotated out every day. He was the more relatable, more reserved foil to their recently deceased father, although that didn’t make the man himself any less dangerous; if anything, Vlad admired his uncle’s easy, understated approach. He was the last of the family that Vlad felt true kinship to.
“Dmitry!” Igor raised his broad, scarred hands in approval of his nephew, championing the name as it was meant to be said—colored by a thick Russian accent. “Please, boys, let us hold off on the fighting. This family has been through enough already. Your father would be ashamed to see the two of you reduced to this.”
Vlad observed the flush of shame creep across his older brother’s face. Unlike Dmitry, Vlad had no qualms with making their quarrels physical, but he let his brother feel responsible for the escalation all the same. He handed Dmitry the book he had recovered, and his brother nodded in thanks, before returning to stand behind his desk.
“Vlad,” Igor greeted him with a tone of respect shared between professionals. Vlad returned his uncle’s nod. “I am surprised to find you here.”
“You caught me on my way out, Uncle. I was just leaving.”
“He has a date tonight,” Dmitry volunteered.
Vlad silently cursed his brother. It was either deny the other’s claim and prove Dmitry right, or risk coming across as distracted to his uncle. “I am following a lead,” he said, darting a cold look toward his brother. “I suspect I might hear something new over dinner. I’ll report back with what I learn if I think it will serve the investigation.”
He fingered the note to Sergey hidden in his pocket. He had yet to divulge its existence to anyone, and he wondered if he should now. No… better to track the note from O’Connor to its source, or at least as close to the source as he could get.
He watched his uncle’s quizzical expression fold into one of sympathy. There it was, the familial feeling that came so much more easily to him than it ever had to Sergey. Vlad wasn’t sure he welcomed its appearance now. He was not the malchik, the boy that his uncle still referred to in the heat of a moment.
“You should go on this date,” Igor instructed. He lifted his hands again, this time in acknowledgement of the man Vlad had become. “Go have fun! Have drinks and have women if you must!”
“My father is dead,” Vlad said. “I’ll not rest easy until I know why.”
“Believe me, Vladimir, I have not forgotten.” Igor’s face darkened like a summer storm, and Vlad felt some reassurance in seeing the man’s enduring feelings about his brother’s murder appear out in the open. “But I need you to stay focused. Now, more than ever. There is only one Karev left in the Bratva.” Vlad didn’t need to look to Dmitry in that moment to know his brother’s discomfort, but facts were facts. Of the three brothers, he was the only one who still remained in the family business. “I need you to focus on your obligations. Should a beautiful woman divert you on occasion… eh.” Igor shrugged his shoulders. “But something like murder? No. I would prefer that you leave the investigation to me.” Igor’s eyes hardened. “These things take time. For justice to be served, my associates and I need more time.”
“It’s taken too much time already.” Vlad didn’t care if he came across as disrespectful. He’d had about as much of his fractured family as he could take for one day. They had been much reduced since Maxim’s defection, and even more so since Sergey’s death. He appreciated that his uncle was doing everything within his power to see that revenge for the family was served, but Vlad was impatient to find and personally deal with his father’s executioner.