“At the restaurant. We walked in and he was there. He was…there. Oh, my God, Angela. Please, hurry.”
“I’m already out the door. Baby girl fell asleep in her bassinet, so I just had to grab it and Tanner’s car seat.” Her voice shook to prove she was moving. “I can’t believe this. How’d he seem?”
“Intense.” Infuriating. Disgusting. Beautiful. “He followed us out of the restaurant. He said he wanted to talk with me. Alone. He wanted to see me home.” Arrogant. Had she mentioned infuriating?
“Alone. What, he wanted you to send Justin away? Shit, girl. But how will he find out where you live just by seeing you in a— Never mind. Stupid question, considering who he is. But it’ll take him a while, right?”
Angela’s reaction was a comfort, proving she knew what a Russian Bratva was capable of just as she’d let on when Sacha had finally caved to the pressure and shared her story. Justin’s earlier mistake stole that comfort.
“No. Justin gave Maksim his name.” Shocking herself with the violent move, she reached over and swatted her friend’s hard thigh. Fear squeezed her lungs as she remembered that behemoth going to work the moment he had some information. “Why did you not listen to me, Justin?” Her daughter’s image shimmered before her eyes. “We would have had more time if all they had was the license plate of your car! Now he will come! He will learn she exists, and he will take her from me!”
“Sasha!”
Angela’s use of her real name shut her up.
“I don’t understand what the hell you’re saying. You’re speaking Russian. And who the heck is Maksim?”
“What the fuck is going on here?” Justin demanded as she covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head.
His image blurred before her eyes, and she didn’t protest when he took her phone. He knew Angela just as well as Sacha, if not better, since Angela was married to his best friend. That’s how Sacha and Justin had grown so close, by being thrown together all the time during park visits and potluck dinners. Sacha had vehemently protested the coupling at first until one evening Justin had revealed he wasn’t interested in her “in that way,” saying with a smile that she wasn’t his type. Or the right gender. She’d welcomed his easy companionship after that, and they’d soon started hanging out and making plans even when Angela and Steve were unavailable. Tonight’s dinner, for example.
“Yeah, of course, I’ve heard of them but have never met any of them before,” he was saying to Angela. “My brother has gotten to know a few of them pretty well.” He put the phone between his ear and shoulder and reached over to turned the heat up. He must have noticed she was shivering—it wasn’t from the cold. “I read about the territorial one a couple of months ago. He and his partner landed that multi-residential deal everyone was bidding for on the Lower East Side. Word on the street was, rather than their lawyers, Alek Tarasov and Markus Fane kicked some serious ass during negotiations. Two high-profile families with questionable ties…”
Sacha tuned him out as he and Angela speculated about something Sacha knew for certain. The ties were not only questionable, they were unbreakable. Because they were family ties that bound those men together. The fact that most of them didn’t share the same blood made no difference. They were family. A brotherhood. Bratva.
She couldn’t have said where the Tarasovs were more influential, in the U.S. or in Russia, where she’d heard talk of them all her life. Whether it was on the news or at her family’s dinner table—not that she’d paid much attention back then—their name had usually been but whispered with equal parts fear and respect. She remembered the knowing looks her parents exchanged when photos would surface of Alekzander’s grandfather with highly respected political leaders. They’re everywhere, her father would murmur under his breath.
It wasn’t until she moved away from home after her parents’ death that Sacha had her first personal interaction with a real-life member. She’d come to New York because a family friend’s daughter had made the move the year before. She and Irena had been close growing up. Not to the same extent their mother’s were, but still, Sacha had always thought they’d had a connection. Irena, it turned out, wasn’t the sentimental type, because when Sacha showed up at the address she was given for a hair salon in Brighton Beach, her childhood “friend” had had no interest in renewing their acquaintance. Sacha hadn’t minded that so much after seeing the marked difference in the girl she used to know. The most obvious being the droopy eyes and purple bruises in her elbow creases.