Chapter 8 A Dinner Between Demons

• Yurich
• I hit my fingers against the glass table completely impatient, it’s been a month since I let that woman go, and I’m tormented by her voice while I sleep during the day keeping my eyes on the surveillance cameras of that hospital. I’m angry at myself for letting him go.
• "I told you to keep it."
• "You look like a fucking parrot," I reply completely irritated.
• Sitting waiting for one of my biggest enemies in fucking Russia, my little brother still manages to be unbearable. The security detail inside this crappy restaurant is stronger than the White House. Somehow stupid Italians are infiltrating our lands like a plague.
• I had to find out if in other regions the same was happening, I found that Nabokov faces the same problems in the south of the country maybe it’s time to unite the sides and magnify the Bratva as sovereign. At least that’s what I hope, thinking about the doctor just disrupted the plans.
• The movement changes the moment the dark-haired and cold-eyed man enters the space his soldiers around while I continue sitting, I push the chair in front of me with the tip of my foot. Nabokov at the height of his fifties looks nothing like an encounter with Russia’s most feared man.
• Quickly Dobrev appears standing next to me on the right while Nureyev sits on the left side, the bottle of vodka arrives and is served in three glasses.
• "I hear you’re in trouble in Bratsk," I say I have some information gathered about Orekhov.
• "As far as I know you have bigger problems for the Bratva."
• I have a feeling of recognizing her gloomy gaze inflamed from the inside even keeping cold and distant from the outside. I open a singing smile take the drink and take a long sip as proof that it is not poisoned.
• "We may hate each other but I believe that hatred for Italians is greater," I say down the glass to the table.
• His gaze is inflamed by the mention we are at an impasse in which tension is playable, his men on one side completely irritated as mine stand still only by my order.
• It’s a fucking cold war traced in the middle of a restaurant, any misstep, and the guns will be raised.
• "I want Francesco’s head much more than your boy, so what do you propose?"
• He finally drinks alcohol after letting sarcasm drip in his voice in disrespect, I give the old man credit for courage.
• "A truce"
• "It won’t happen, my men don’t want your command and you don’t want to be commanded."
• He hits the glass on the table making the glass crack, I feel the anger rising hot through my veins in a way in which I’m getting irritated.
• "How about a wedding?" Nureyev opens his mouth and as always speaks a shit.
• I look at him completely annoyed about pulling the gun to kill him when I feel his hand grabbing my wrist. I turn my gaze to Nabokov who scratches his beard as if thinking of the possibility.
• "My daughter is out of business." he declares squinting toward my brother.
• "We are not Italian to close a union by marriage, but let’s be honest Nabokov they are coming and their daughter in or out will be attacked." My brother scores points.
• I remove my wrist from your hand, understanding where the asshole wants to get even so is still complicated.
• "Is that what you’re proposing?"
• "Your daughter will be protected by us and your men, I believe it will be a point in common if she becomes a wife and when we finish what we have to do we can redo this meeting."
• The old man claps his fingers against the glass of the table, seems to be irritated and anxious in the same way as I have been for the last thirty days, but if Nureyev thinks I will marry he is completely mistaken. I give him a hard look making that clear, but as always my brother just opens a Ladin smile. Nabokov lets out a long sigh running his fingers between the dark wires, pulling a cell phone from inside the tuxedo in the eyes of civilians nothing like two businessmen doing business. After a few taps, he turns the screen putting on the table pushing the device making my lungs stop for a single second.
• I can now recognize the similarity of the dark threads and the incendiary gaze, the coat covering his small body as he looks to the side as if he were being watched walking with a cup of coffee in his hands.
• "Lyana is my heiress and not a single strand of your hair should be out of place when this deal is over, understand?" Your authoritative voice irritates me.
• "Convince your daughter to marry me and our deal will be closed." I rebut.
• I lift her body giving her a firm look, coming out of the restaurant completely stunned and ready to beat Nureyev.
• When we finally get inside the car I grab him by the neck.
• "If you want to kiss me brother just ask."
• Growl pushing the son of a bitch back into the bank.
• "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
• "Mine? - Points to the chest itself- None, already you should decide the color of the suit for the wedding."
• I raise my fist ready to punch him until we reach the mansion, and he raises his hands in surrender.
• "I researched the woman you were fascinated with and still cleaned up your mess, her security guards were searching the city for her."
• "That doesn’t make sense, she freaked out to see me cut off the men who hurt her and begged to be released, now, I hear her father is Orekhov’s boss."
• "She’s just a brother, she doesn’t know she’s the daughter of a mobster, that’s the way Nabokov found to keep her out of business, pretend she abandoned her."
• I raise my eyebrows understanding how the doctor has been deceived by her father and will now come back into my arms in a marriage agreement.