The Score (The Russian Guns Book 3)

by Bethany-Kris

  “Love you, Vine.”

  Viviana smiled, letting her husband know she wasn’t really sleeping. “Do you?”

  “Like crazy. In a way that says there’s got to be something fucking wrong with me. So, Ana, huh?”

  “For your grandmother, and me, sort of. I liked it. She seems like an Ana.”

  Anton moved across the bed, kissing his wife until her pretty brown eyes opened wide to stare into his. The feeling of her lips on his reminded Anton of every reason why he loved his girl.

  “Is Ana a good name?” Viviana asked when Anton pulled away.

  “Ana’s great, baby.” Anton found his wife’s hands with his own, intertwining their fingers before he tugged her into his chest. “And so are we.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. New day, you know. Do you always let him poke your stomach like that? Because when I used to do it—”

  “You’re a grown man, Anton.”

  “So? Demyan seemed to like it.”

  “This baby isn’t Demyan.”

  “Well, she seems to like it.”

  Obviously realizing she wasn’t going to win the argument, Viviana rolled her eyes and giggled. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Yeah, but I’m your kind of ridiculous.”

  “Good thing.”

  Anton knew they had a ways to go, but oddly, this didn’t feel like an end.

  It was a beginning.

  “We’re okay,” Anton said in the morning light, wanting his wife to know again. Viviana graced him with a smile. “We always were, baby.”

  “Always,” she echoed.

  Nearly four months later, Ana Christina began to make her show into the world five days before her due date. Unlike the birth of their son that went without issue, Ana’s was not the same. Anton could tell that from the very beginning when his wife woke him not long after he’d fallen asleep early that night, swearing she couldn’t do it alone because the minor contractions were so awful already.

  She took hours, Ana did. They weren’t easy hours. They were the kind of hours that ripped every bit of strength Viviana had left away and left her weak and exhausted. For a second child, a second birth, the doctors were confused. Viviana’s body should have responded better, it should have understood what it needed to do. Instead, she struggled through contraction after contraction, never dilating enough for pain medication until ten hours turned into twenty, and those twenty turned into thirty-two.

  The entire time, Anton felt so lost. Viviana could handle pain. Of that, Anton was most sure. This wasn’t the same. It was brutal. Her whimpers, her tears. They tore him to shreds. It hurt him even more when she begged him to promise no more children. She didn’t want to do it again.

  Anton made that promise, though.

  Unable to help his wife, all the while watching the monitors around them, Anton was unsure of what he was seeing. And then the baby heart monitor, the one keeping track of little Ana’s heart, stopped showing life.

  Suddenly it wasn’t about waiting anymore, it was about rushing.

  Ana was born in to the world late in the evening of December twenty-eighth. She’d been without oxygen for minutes. Her cord had somehow detached. From the very start, she showed not only how much of a fighter she was, but that she was also trouble. Once they got her breathing, she started to cry. Anton was pretty sure his daughter cried nonstop for the first three years of her damned life, but he didn’t care.

  Anton loved his dark haired, brown-eyed daughter from the first second he laid eyes on her. She looked just like her mother, but with blue-black hair like his. Five tiny fingers on her small right hand curled around his thumb inside the incubator and just like that, their home was filled, all pain and fear from the day forgotten.

  Ten tiny fingers.

  Blue-black hair.

  And the brownest, prettiest eyes.

  “Papa?” Demyan asked as he stared into the incubator, confused.

  “That’s baby Ana,” Anton tried to explain.

  Demyan made a face. “No, that’s not baby Ana.”

  Anton chuckled. Attempting to explain to Demyan that his baby sister wasn’t his mother’s stomach was not an easy thing. The kid was so damned stubborn about everything. Just like his father. Not to mention, it was clear he was also jealous. Viviana and Anton expected that, though. It was normal.

  “No, that is baby Ana.”

  “That’s yucky.”

  “Demyan, don’t call your sister yucky.”

  “That’s yucky,” his son repeated seriously.

  Viviana giggled from her spot in the rocking chair three feet away. She was still healing from the C-section and walking could be an awful experience. “It’s the sibling kind of love already. If we’re lucky, yucky will be the nicest thing he calls her.”

  “Vine,” Anton groaned. “Don’t jinx it, baby.”

  Over his shoulder, Anton met his wife’s gaze and caught her smile with his own. They’d had a rough few months together. Hell, they had a rough fucking year. Eventually Anton learned what he needed to do was put his mind and thoughts to the side, and let his heart take back over.

  Trust was rebuilt.

  Those cracks in the foundation were filled.

  Anton learned he didn’t have to feel like he owned her, to own the best parts of her. Viviana gave them willingly, in any case.

  They were okay.

  So okay.

  God, he loved his wife. Like crazy. Like nobody understood.

  Viviana’s smile turned into a knowing grin. “Love you, too.”

  “Still kills me, baby.”

  Because he could be a lot of things. A monster. A man. Overwhelmed. Exhausted. Loving. Unsure. Her husband. Their children’s father. The Bratva boss. He could be so goddamn bad, or so fucking good. Sometimes love hurt, sometimes it suffocated.

  Sometimes it just consumed.

  She didn’t care. Viviana loved him, anyway.

  Yeah, it killed him. But in the best way.

  Epilogue

  15 years later …

  “Demyan! That’s disgusting. In the freaking pool? Where I swim? Daddy didn’t have that put in for you to screw whoever-the-heck in it!”

  “Ana, get in the house right now.”

  Anton sighed, resisting the urge to bang his head against the hallway wall as his walk came to an abrupt stop. Sure enough, the telltale shriek of an embarrassed female and splashes of water followed Ana’s angry tirade and Viviana’s warning.

  “Ugh. He’s only been home a week. He’s awful, I can’t stand his stupid ass.”

  “Ana Christina, I swear!” Viviana yelled. “Watch that mouth of yours.”

  “But, Ma, he’s—”

  “Ana, I said enough. Demyan, take your friend home.”

  “Oh, that’s not the kind of girl I’d call a friend, Ma. Friends don’t let other friends screw them in the pool.”

  Anton screwed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath. At only nineteen, his son was without a doubt, the carbon copy of his younger self. Demyan liked very few things, but they were simple things. Good music, vodka, fast cars, guns, women, and football. Demyan also tended to talk more with his fists than his mouth when it came to guys. Hence his presence at home for the next month.

  A suspension from his university’s football team summer camp riled the young man up enough to send him home to think. Anton knew his son was just trying to find some solid ground. But, was his behaviour and attitude most days entirely exasperating? Yes.

  “Holy crap, you’re just going to let him off with that?” Ana asked, sounding disgusted. “He brought some piece of pizda—”

  “All right, I’ve heard all I want to out of you,” Demyan barked. “Fucking little brat.”

  “Demyan Anton!”

  It didn’t matter who was shouting Demyan’s name in anger, they still stressed his middle name like that was the exact reason he acted like he did. Hoping to all hell his wife had a hold of the situation outside, Anton slipped into his
office and closed the door soundlessly. The last thing he wanted to do was get himself caught up in the middle of that chaos.

  Growing up sibling-less hadn’t exactly given Anton the best idea of what his children would be like as they got older together. Nearly four years apart in age, he figured Demyan and Ana would be as tight as knots. Instead, it seemed like the only fucking thing his kids did was fight.

  They simply had to be within yelling distance for the slander to start getting slung.

  I love my kids. I love my kids, Anton chanted internally to himself as he sat down at his desk. It was a mantra he learned to favor over the years.

  The computer’s screen flickered to life, the page automatically refreshing to show the emails that had been missed for the morning and late afternoon. Despite keeping a low profile as an active boss in the Russian Bratva at his age, Anton still played his part. In essence, he was a vor for life. There was no escaping it, he just didn’t play such a leading role, anymore. Others, like his son, were starting to take center stage in more ways than one. Demyan still had quite a few years to go before he would take that stage alone, but his day would come.

  Going through the emails and responding, Anton barely noticed the time passing him by until a familiar two knuckle rap sounded on the outside of his office door.

  “Come in, Demyan.”

  The door opened and the first thing his nineteen-and-a-half-year-old son greeted him with was a roguish smirk that brought back memories of Anton’s younger years. Raven black hair hung over mischievous blue eyes. His lips quirked up in a grin. Demyan was broad shouldered, six foot, three inches tall, and built like a brick house. A sight to see for sure.

  He didn’t lack female attention, by any means.

  Sometimes the kid used that to his benefit far too much.

  “You know better than to call your sister names,” Anton scolded, keeping his eyes on the computer screen. “If you can’t play nice with Ana, I’ll send you back to the other side of New York. Neither your mother, nor I, want to listen to you fight like cats and dogs, Demyan.”

  “What would I even do over there?”

  Anton’s gaze flicked up to meet his son’s. “Work, and not for the Bratva, either. You enjoy that far too much, and I’m starting to think you could use a bit of pride elsewhere.”

  “Oh, I’ve got pride where it counts, Papa.”

  “Mmm, not that kind, smartass,” Anton replied blithely. “Don’t push me.”

  Demyan rearranged himself on the leather couch, tossing his legs over the side of the armrest before flopping back to stare at the ceiling with a heavy sigh. “Even when I do go back, they’re not going to let me play first string next season because of the fight.”

  Football was the only thing Anton didn’t have in common with his son.

  “You could always quit football if you’re not getting what you need from it.”

  “I’m getting more than enough, it’s the goddamned guys who think that it’s okay for them to push my fucking buttons. They only pull that shit because of my last name.” A dark chuckle echoed from Demyan before he added, “They don’t even know what that name carries, or what I could do. Not really.”

  Anton shrugged. “We all have to follow the rules, in one way or the other. You broke the football team’s policy about fighting with teammates, so now you handle it like an adult.”

  “You’re lecturing me on the importance of following rules?” Demyan scoffed, shooting Anton a look from the side that was filled with disbelief. “Really, Papa? That’s rich coming from you and all.”

  There were some chains Anton refused to bite onto, and that was one of them. There came a point in his life when he realized his children would know exactly who he was and what had happened in his past.

  When his son had asked, Anton didn’t lie. It wasn’t such a surprise that Demyan barely blinked an eye about it, either, considering he’d been so close to his father growing up. The kid always did have a healthy curiosity for the life around him, sticking his nose into situations where he didn’t belong. Demyan was a lot like Anton in that way, actually. It was even worse because his son was a goddamn natural.

  Demyan would make one hell of a boss one day.

  Anton found himself constantly drawing the similarities between him and his son. From chasing pussy from the time he was old enough to want it, to stealing his father’s Mercedes. He even dabbled in a few harder drugs, which brought his mother to tears. Demyan pulled every stunt his father had once done twice over. Sometimes even worse. On more than one occasion, Demyan frightened the fucking wits out of his father doing some of the shit he did, giving Anton a damn good feeling of what it must have been like to be his own mother and father.

  If anything, Anton found himself respecting Daniil and Sasha even more.

  There was an open door policy between Anton and his son. Always had been, and always would be. Demyan needed a safe place to go to, so Anton was it—a cornerstone. Sometimes it led to Anton learning things he didn’t want or need to know, but at the same time, Demyan was never afraid to come to his father if he needed something, or just wanted to talk.

  He made his son a vor on his eighteenth birthday, just the same as he had been.

  All the while, Anton let Demyan live, he let him grow, disciplined him when he needed to, and taught him what he knew had helped him the most. More than anything, Anton knew Demyan needed to make those same mistakes he did long ago, otherwise his son wouldn’t be who he was. Anton was so proud of who his son was, now.

  No regrets, Anton mused with a glance at his carefree, albeit frustrated, son. Viviana asked Anton once to be a father first to their children, and the boss second. Somehow, he knew he managed to do just that, though the two things mingled at times. It was impossible to avoid.

  “Who raised you with that disrespect in your mouth, huh?” Anton asked over the computer. “Surely not me, Demyan.”

  “Sorry,” Demyan muttered. “So hey, listen—”

  “No, you listen. Was that the redhead your sister caught you with in the pool?”

  Demyan’s blue eyes blinked with shock before a mask of indifference fell in its place. “So what if it was? I’m always safe, we’re good.”

  “No, we’re not good, Demyan. Being safe doesn’t always equate to a whole hell of a lot. Mistakes happen more often than not. So help you God if some girl shows up on our doorstep pregnant with your child and you get strapped down with a woman you don’t want or love. I can’t leave you alone for thirty minutes and you’ve got naked females running loose in my house. Jesus, we only went to the store for steaks.”

  “Technically, she was—”

  Anton held up a single hand. “Who pays for this house?”

  “You.”

  “Who lets you live in it when you don’t feel like cleaning your apartment?”

  “You,” Demyan said unhappily.

  “Exactly. And your mother, but that’s beside the point.” Anton sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, annoyed. Going back to his computer, he began typing out the final email he hadn’t finished before his son interrupted. “The point, is that you know the rules here, too. None of those girls you run around with are to be in this home, not unless—”

  “I’m prepared to keep them,” Demyan said quietly. “Yeah, I know.”

  Anton’s hands froze over the keyboard. “Excuse me?”

  “I said I know.”

  If Anton was hearing his son correctly, Demyan was telling him something incredibly important and huge for him. “And?”

  Demyan chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek, pushing himself into a sitting position on the couch. It wasn’t long before the jittery jump of his knee started, giving away how anxious he truly was. Anton didn’t think he had ever seen his boy so completely overwhelmed before.

  “My God, spit it the fuck out, Demyan,” Anton said.

  “Wasn’t the redhead,” his son mumbled.

  Anton turned slowly in his chair, bringing it
out to the side of the desk where he could see his son face on. “But you’ve been with her a lot lately, yeah?”

  “Casey?” Demyan made a dismissed sound under his breath, shrugging those broad shoulders of his and refusing to meet his father’s stare. “Sure, but it’s not like we’re serious or anything. Shit, we’re not even fucking. She’s a good friend of mine, I guess. Some innocent fun when I’m bored. People assume; I let them.”

  Anton didn’t like where this was going. “Does she know that, though?”

  “Sure. I can have a female friends and not be with them, okay? I do know how to do that, even if you think I don’t.”

  “Well, okay then.”

  That was enough for Anton. He didn’t need to know any more about this Casey. As long as she wasn’t screwing around with his boy, she wasn’t knocked up, and Demyan wasn’t leading her on, Anton didn’t care what they did together.

  “What about Sofia? You two had a thing there for a while, didn’t you? Is that over for good now, or what?”

  Adrik Vasin’s daughter had grown into a beautiful young woman. One that caught Demyan’s eye when he was a newly turned eighteen and fresh out of his parent’s house into his own life. Anton knew the two new adults had played around on more than one occasion, though he turned his cheek to it. They were old enough to make those choices and it wasn’t in Anton’s home, after all, so he didn’t much care as long as it didn’t affect his Bratva or business.

  Mostly, Demyan liked Sofia for who she was and the values she sported. Demyan admitted as much to his father, and given the way she was raised—with Bratva values—she appealed to Demyan for that reason. Unfortunately, that was one of the only reasons she appealed to his son. She was Russian, a beauty, a little on the wild child side, and related to Demyan’s life in a business sort of way that gave him a solid outlook on what could be his future.

  But, she wasn’t someone he loved. Sofia also didn’t love him.

  “We worked better in bed than we did out of it. She’s wild. Tripped me up when I was bored. Good for that, you know.”

  Anton cringed, not wanting to hear that story for a minute. “Jesus, Demyan. I really like the arrangement I have with Adrik. You know how particular he is over that girl. Please don’t go using his daughter for a toy and getting yourself shot. I’d hate to have to kill my friend because he taught you a lesson about respecting a man’s daughter.”