IF HIS father sent someone to drag his ass out of bed—even if it was a night when he drank half of his body weight in vodka—Kolya couldn’t refuse. Especially not when his father was the Pakhan.
The stars tattooed on Kolya Boykov’s chest meant that regardless if he was drunk or not, Vadim owned his fucking ass for life. Or at least until death.
“Move your ass, Kolya,” the man outside his bathroom barked. “You know the boss won’t appreciate being made to wait on you again.”
Fuck.
Like Kolya needed a reminder, or something.
“I’m trying to take a piss, yeah? Shut that goddamn hole in your face.”
“Surly today, no?”
Kolya spat out a laugh that tasted like hatred, bitterness, and vodka on his tongue. Today, right. That was a goddamn joke when it was … Kolya glanced down at the Rolex watch adorning his large wrist. Four in the fucking morning!
Who called someone at four in the morning?
Jesus.
Tipping his head back to let out another frustrated growl, Kolya finished up his business, and took his sweet time washing his hands, too. The less time he had to spend in his father’s presence, the better. He swore Vadim pulled shit like this just because he could—because the bastard got a good rise out of pestering the living hell out of his sons—and nothing else.
The fist banging against the bathroom door all but sent Kolya’s blood pressure skyrocketing. “Working on getting my foot shoved up your ass, Anatoly.”
The fact the bull had been one of Vadim’s best men for longer than Kolya cared to remember didn’t really make much of a fucking difference to him at the end of the day. He would still make sure the man knew the taste of pain before Kolya ended his life.
With a smile.
Kolya took that whole kill them with kindness thing to another level.
“It’s not Anatoly, brat,” came a new voice.
Kolya’s posture softened a bit at Konstantin’s—his younger brother by two years—voice. But not very much. Konstantin, depending on the time, day, or his mood, could be just as irritating as anyone else in Kolya’s path.
Or shit, maybe it was just Kolya.
“When did you get here?”
“Two minutes ago,” Konstantin said through the door. “How long are you going to wash your hands?”
Kolya grumbled unintelligibly under his breath—until I’m decently sober. At the moment, he was pretty sure if he walked too fast, he would tumble over. Nobody needed to see all six-foot-four, and two-hundred-fifty pounds of him topple over because he wasn’t willing to admit he’d drank too much vodka.
That looked good on no man.
But especially not a vor.
And definitely not a Russian.
Fuck it.
Kolya shut off the water and ignored the stinging in his hands. The water had been hotter than the devil’s ass and turned his hands bright red in the process. Damn—like he needed more proof that he wasn’t the least bit up to par for a meeting this early in the goddamn morning with his father.
Vadim Boykov didn’t miss a thing.
He ate shit like misdeeds and missteps for breakfast.
Saw them as weaknesses.
And when it came to his sons?
Vadim was far worse.
It was as though the man expected ten times from Kolya and Konstantin what he demanded from other men. Anyone else might have to jump when told to, but the Boykov brothers better damn well fly when Vadim even suggested it.
Twenty-six years under his father’s thumb had taught Kolya one important lesson about life, family, and vory: as long as you were a thief, none of the rest meant shit, and the less he expected from his father, the better off he would be.
That was, unless Kolya was expecting something like a slap to the back of his head, or some other form of punishment meant to cut him down a step or two or degrade him enough to humiliate him. Vadim liked to think of that as teachable moments for his boys.
Dragging himself from his thoughts, Kolya yanked open the bathroom door and found Konstantin leaning against the wall. Konstantin was peering at the glowing screen of his phone. He didn’t even glance up at his brother’s entrance.
“Got the call, too, I see,” Kolya muttered.
“Yes.”
Konstantin’s confirmative reply followed Kolya into the bedroom across the hall.
“Where did Anatoly disappear to?”
Konstantin tipped his head to the side with one of those looks of his, saying, “Said he wasn’t waiting on you anymore, and since I was here …”
Kolya chuckled dryly. “Fucking useless.”
“Funny.”
“Izvinee,” Kolya mumbled, “because nothing about this seems fucking funny to me. You like getting your ass up for Papa in the middle of the night, Konstantin? Because I do not.”
“Funny,” Konstantin returned, “because Anatoly says the same thing about you.”
Yeah, well …
Kolya didn’t even bother to respond to that statement, instead he picked up the pace to leave his place. His shitty little apartment in the Heights wasn’t much to look at, but it was good enough for him at the moment. It was close to his work, and easy access to everything else. A shitty part of the city, sure, but who the fuck was going to mess with a Boykov in Chicago?
They owned this fucking city.
The Boykov Bratva was well-known in the city. Most idiots just referred to them as the Russian mafia, but he attributed that ignorance to the fact that the inner workings of the Bratva and their customs weren’t exactly public consumption.
People knew to leave them the fuck alone and stay the hell away. Which was exactly what Kolya enjoyed most about being who he was. He didn’t like others, in general—he couldn’t even pretend to try on most days. His disposition and last name afforded him the sanctuary of people keeping their distance, which meant he rarely needed to bother with anyone else at all.
That was enough for Kolya.
Unless, of course, it was his father.
Because he was Vadim.
That was really all Kolya needed to say.
“You need to upgrade from this apartment,” Konstantin said, glancing around Kolya’s darkened bedroom. “Live up to the standards of your name, no?”
Kolya rolled his eyes and ground his teeth together as he pulled out appropriate clothing for a meeting with his father. No stupid fuck thought to meet Vadim in anything less than a suit, or black clothes that could pass as dressier wear. “Don’t take cheap shots at my place, suka. Not all of us need to live in a mansion on the hills,”
“I don’t live in a fucking mansion on the hills.”
“Yet,” Kolya returned.
He was looking at a house in Melrose Park, but buying something like that meant his sister, Viktoria, would probably want to have a housewarming party. And a party for a Boykov meant his father would be invited, and other people.
Not Kolya’s thing.
At all.
Kolya had already thrown on the black slacks and he left the black dress shirt unbuttoned when he passed by Konstantin on the way out the door. He’d button it up in the car because he had already wasted enough time. Vadim would be worked up enough as it was, without Kolya adding to it.
“You should have splashed some water on your face,” Konstantin said. “Showered, yeah? You smell like you bathed in cheap vod—”
He punched his brother hard in the arm, a silent warning for Konstantin to back the fuck off before he got Kolya worked up.
Konstantin bared his teeth. “Mudak.”
Kolya laughed darkly as he headed down the dimly lit hallway with his brother on his heels. “Ouch, that hurts my soul.”
“Nothing hurts you,” Konstantin said when he moved ahead of Kolya to grab the door for him, “I don’t think you even have a fucking soul to hurt.”
“Nyet. I have a soul—I just don’t own it anymore.”
Kolya tossed the keys for his Hummer to Konstantin over his shoulder without even looking back. He heard Konstantin catch the keys, and smirked. Sure, he ribbed his brother a lot, and the two were at each other’s throats more often than they weren’t.
But at the end of the day?
At the end of every single day?
Konstantin was still a Boykov. He was still Kolya’s brother, and Vadim hadn’t beaten enough lessons into his oldest son yet to make him forget it, either.
It meant something to Kolya.
At least for now.
“You drive,” Kolya called. “I’m not legal, brat.”
At least he was walking straight, though. That had to count for something. Maybe by the time they made it across the city to where Vadim was waiting with whatever fresh hell he was ready to lay at their feet, he wouldn’t look like he just woke up from a night-long bender.
Unlikely.
One could still hope.
Konstantin made a noise in the back of his throat. “Begging for Vadim to throw a fit, Kolya.”
Maybe he was.
Maybe he fucking was.