Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
No one will say,
“Poor Dimitri, his entire wardrobe costs enough to buy Mother Russia.”
Then again, we all have to drop a pretty penny to look the part. We didn’t come to America to be paupers, we came to be kings. At least, that’s what my father would always tell me. As long as we’re part of the organization, we are kings among men. We have the power and the money to back our own dreams. We don’t stand in line for bread or pray we have enough firewood to last through the winter.
I’ve worked hard to become a king, while Dimitri inherited it. He is a small man, not just in stature, but in character, and we all know it. But, in an effort to keep the peace, we zip our lips and attend these events. Because kingdoms are easily toppled, and none of us will see that happen.
I make my way to the front of the church to shake the small man’s hand. He’s in rare form, going on and on about the opulent reception we’ll all enjoy later. I have no intention of attending, and being seen at the wedding is enough to keep the peace for a while. Besides, by the time the bride and groom arrive at the reception, every man in the place will be so blitzed on vodka, they won’t remember which sour-looking woman they’re married to.
Bratva weddings are fun that way.
I have too much work to do tonight. I’ll let the other kings drink while I strategize how to expand my empire. I didn’t become the head of my branch by sitting on my ass drinking. That was for other men, not me. I had to work and sacrifice and suffer to get to where I am today. Those lazy bastards will never understand. Dimitri will never understand.
“Good to see you, Ivan,” he says jovially as he shakes my hand quickly before moving on to the next man.
From the smell of him, he’s already started the celebrations. I murmur my congratulations, not that he’s paying any attention to me anymore. He’s seen me now. I could sneak out the back and end the charade that I care about any of this. I’ve been to enough weddings to get the gist. This is just another stuffy affair for a father to show off his wealth and for us to pretend we care.
I’ve got us seats in the back, Antonov texts me.
He stayed back while I greeted Dimitri, knowing his place. Bodyguards don’t shake the hands of kings. They remain distanced and make sure no one tries to assassinate the king. Antonov is a good soldier, always respectful of the rules. It was why I’d promoted him to my bodyguard in the first place. I never had to worry about him.
I make my way back to where his hulking figure sits. He’s large enough to take up at least two spaces. Between the two of us, no one will dare try to sit in our row, which is how I prefer it. No matter what the Bratva code says, these people are not my real family. Or, if they are, they’re the kind of family I only want to see on occasion and leave as early as possible.
I’m barely seated when I realize I have to piss. It would be extremely rude for me to get up during the wedding. An offense I would have to spend years making up for. I tell Antonov I’ll be right back but see that the line for the restrooms is already long. I decide to find another.
I walk deep into the old church, appreciating the architecture. They don’t build churches like this anymore, with their old stone and high ceilings. Weak light filters through the old windows, making the space look like a fairytale. What a perfect day for a wedding. The bride must be thrilled.
I find a bathroom deep in the center of the church. I hear laughter and shouting and realize I must be near the groom’s suite. I say a silent prayer that I don’t run into any of the groomsmen, who are no doubt already a few sheets to the wind. Another Russian tradition.
I use the bathroom quickly and wash my hands, anxious to get back to my seat before I’m seen. These young Russian American men are rowdier than I ever was. Every moment is an opportunity to get shitfaced, even a wedding where they’re meant to be straight-faced and focused. These young boys have no respect for tradition or duty. And these are who we’re leaving the organization to.
I shake my head in disgust when something catches my eye. To my left, a flash of white grows closer and closer until it passes by me completely and continues running down the hall. Was that? No, it couldn’t be. Dimitri Mikhailov’s daughter did not just run away from her own wedding.