Red Alpha: A BWWM Russian Alpha Billionaire Romance (3 page)

She’d been trying to see him married and bound for the past decade at least – and he fought her every step of the way. Demyan had no desire to marry – and especially not to marry a woman his borderline psychotic elder sister handpicked for him. Luckily enough, though Veta might be older than him, he’d long grown bigger than her.

And bolder when it came to questioning her authority.

Exhaling a long breath, Demyan gazed at the city around him as he drove. Moscow hadn’t changed much over the years. Leaders had come and gone, and skyscrapers sprouted up unfettered, but for him, much remained the same. He was still watched like a dog, and his family still held the same elite, dangerous place they had for his entire life.

Except now the Boykovs were far less numerous.

As he usually did when he dwelled for too long on the past, Demyan forced himself to swallow the emotions that threatened to engulf him. He locked them down deep, behind a stony expression and unwavering obedience that had been all but beaten into him at a young age. It didn’t pay to let yourself get too attached to things. Inevitably, they were always taken away from you.

Ironically enough, he had learned his way of thinking from Osip’s father – the prime minister before him. Ivan Danshov had been, if anything, even more strict and unrelenting than his son; Osip was probably only slightly more tolerable as a singular form of rebellion. Not that it mattered very much anymore.

Ivan was long dead – and Osip as uncontrollable as ever.

It was strange, Demyan often considered, to know so intimately a man who everyone else seemed to think was a God. To the Russian people, Osip Danshov was untouchable – a figure to be both feared and beloved by all. He was the source of their current economic success even as he sought to claim every major technological discovery in his own name. The man played a dangerous game – one where power and popularity went hand in hand, and the punishment for deferring from either could be severe.

But when he’d been a boy, Osip had often run away from his father crying for the same qualities that he himself displayed.

Once their parents had died, both Demyan and Elisaveta had been brought into the Prime Minister’s household to be raised. There was no question as to what would be done with orphans from such a powerful family. How many times over the course of his corrupted childhood had Demyan been told that he would not be held responsible for his parents’ sins?

Too many to count; and of course, the implicit warning was that the choice was his. If he obeyed, he could maintain the good name and wealth of his parents. If he didn’t, he would end up just like them.

And so he had done what any sane child under ten would: he followed the rules that would keep him alive. It wasn’t hard with Elisaveta keeping him in line.

Though Osip was Ivan’s only son, from the moment Demyan and Veta moved into the presidential manor, it was clear that the Prime Minister favored Veta for her unflinching loyalty. She knew the man from the numerous times he’d come to visit their classes in private school – where Veta was known for her intelligence and obedient behavior.

While Demyan might not have known what was going on between his sister and the prime minister as a boy, as a man, he was all too familiar with similar situations. Of course, it wasn’t his place to talk about them. What Ivan Danshov did while he was alive was sacred, and to defame it when he was so close with Osip would obviously be suicide.

In any event, the relationship Veta had with Ivan had died upon his death.

The cold day in December fifteen years ago was the only time Demyan had ever seen his sister shed a single tear. By that point in his life, he’d come to know Veta as the hard and caustic woman she showed everyone else. She was hardly his sister anymore.

But then again, it could be argued that Veta had ceased to be his sister the day their parents were killed. Somehow…he still clung to whatever vestiges of a relationship they still had. Why exactly he did such a thing puzzled him, as it was about as prudent as a rodent clinging to a hungry snake.

Still…Veta was all he had. Perhaps one day she’d remember that.

The closer he got to the Kremlin, the thinner traffic became. In recent years, the Danshov family had become increasingly paranoid about assassins – to the point where few cars were allowed in and out of certain areas in the city during certain hours. During rush hour, no one was taking any chances.

Demyan found himself wondering why Osip had decided to meet him at the Kremlin in the first place, instead of at the presidential residence. Usually, the man was too paranoid to step out of his house unless the situation called for it. After all, his father
had
been assassinated – something the current Prime Minister never let anyone around him forget. In Osip’s mind, there were aggressors hiding behind every corner, just waiting to take his head off.

If only such a thing were true.

The thought made Demyan smile wryly as he pulled up before the guarded gate house that separated the Kremlin grounds from the rest of the city. The heavily armed man attending there took one look at his face before waving him through.

Thoughtfully, Demyan tried to remember the last time anyone had checked him for ID in the city – or anywhere Osip’s reach extended, for that matter.

He couldn’t recall.

He parked his sleek silver Mercedes in one of the spots tucked up against the side of the immense, red-brick building before sliding from the car. As usual, he drew more than a few stares from those going in and out on their daily business.

While Demyan used to think it was his uncharacteristic height that drew the peoples’ gazes, as he got older he came to realize that it was because his identity preceded him. He was Demyan Boykov, pet to Minister Danshov, sister to the blood-thirsty Elisaveta Boykov, and inheritor of his deceased parents’ estate.

Said estate had been worth millions at the time of his parents death, and after years of careful investments steered and protected by the Russian government, it was now easily worth billions. Demyan lacked for no physical comfort. He supposed it was a small boon granted to him considering what his sham of a childhood had been like.

Rather than being born with a so-called silver spoon in his mouth, he’d had one shoved down his throat in adolescence.

And it had nearly choked him.

“Boykov. Good of you to come.” He’d barely taken a handful of steps away from the door before he was greeted by Osip’s most loyal watchdog:

“Evening, Lichakov.” It wasn’t so much the diminutive woman’s presence that intimidated – and it never had been. In fact, looking upon her without the slightest idea of who she was or what she was attached to, many men had been lured to their untimely deaths. No one would ever deny that Roksana Lichakov was one of Moscow’s most prominent beauties. Despite being in her mid-thirties, she didn’t look a day over twenty five. Lush blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in waves, her face was unmarred by a single scar, and her mouth was full and inviting – always painted a brilliant crimson.

She had a body most Russian women envied – slender and curvaceous all at once – a tiny waist complimented by ample breasts and a slight flaring of her hips; and Lichakov never failed to flaunt her beauty. It was one of the things that so endeared her to Osip. That, and her penchant for cruelty.

Though Osip had long been married to a woman of his father’s choosing, everyone close to him knew that it was to Roksana he went at the end of the day – and his wife kept completely mum on the subject. Demyan had always thought it very wise of her, as Roksana had ripped out more than a few errant wagging tongues in her day. Her gorgeous face and cold blue eyes were the last thing that many political prisoners saw before they met brutal deaths at her hands.

Often while Osip watched.

No…Demyan didn’t relish being alone with Lichakov. There had been a time when she demonstrated attraction to him, but he knew better than to take that bait. Even now, he made sure to steer well clear of any situation that might be misinterpreted as compromising.

Lichakov accompanied him through the vast halls of the Kremlin, the enticing sway of her hips drawing many a man’s gaze. Together, she and he were one fourth of all the current power in Russia, and people hurried to move out of their way as they passed.

“Look at them,” Lichakov sneered under her breath, her lovely mouth pulling down into a grimace of distaste. “Like blind little mice, they scurry about…doing what they’re told.”

Demyan smirked wryly as they reached the door that led to Osip’s office. “Better a blind mouse, Roksana, than one caught in your claws.
Lovely
as they might be.” To punctuate his point, he took her hand, brushing his lips over the back of it as he noted her long scarlet fingernails.

The blonde’s eyes narrowed icily a moment before she snatched her hand from his grip, whirling to march away without a word.

And for the second time that day – oddly – Demyan was left alone. He took a few moments to relish the stillness of the empty corridor before knocking briskly at the door before him. Almost immediately, a low, growling voice commanded that he enter, and Demyan did as he was bid.

To one who had never before met Osip Danshov, the sight of him, Demyan knew, was a frightening one. While the Prime Minister himself was short, squat, and had been balding from a young age, he never went anywhere without an entourage of thugs to protect him. For a long while, Demyan had been one of those thugs, but, eventually, he had graduated to a higher position.

“Demyan!” Osip sprang from his seat, carrying, as he always did, the scent of expensive cigars and starch with him. He rounded the desk to clasp the taller man into a tight embrace, and, naturally, the four bulky guards surrounding him parted to allow it. Demyan knew each of them personally, but by far the most dangerous were twin brothers Petya and Boris Yenotov. Even during the sparse times where Osip’s paranoia cleared enough for him to realize that his bodyguards were, perhaps, a bit overkill when he was secure inside his home, Petya and Boris never left his side. They were like trained attack dogs – intensely vicious and surprisingly crafty. “Rough drive, my boy?”

“Around this time, always.” Demyan’s tone was good natured when he answered. And why not? A meeting with Osip always meant good food and good wine – even if the company was somewhat lacking.

“And still you brave the elements for me.” Osip chuckled, his watery gray eyes narrowing in mirth. “Your devotion is boundless, brother.”

“More like his tardiness is boundless.” Demyan looked over his shoulder to see his sister leaning against the elaborately carved stone fireplace, toying with the butterfly knife she always carried.

Sometimes it disarmed him how much she looked like their mother. The same long blonde hair, the same bright green eyes – though he could barely ever recall Veta’s holding any warmth. With her thin mouth and short stature, she could have been the reincarnation of Danya Boykov – though Demyan could only imagine the rage she would fly into if he ever mentioned such a thing. Instead, he merely smiled at her, nodding in greeting.

“Good evening to you too, Veta.”

She merely answered him with the customary cutting of her eyes and Demyan turned from her, their exchange finished. After all, he had come here for Osip. Veta was just an accessory. “How are things in the Kremlin, Osip?”

“Oh, you know.” The smaller man waved a hand laden with heavy jewelry superfluously. “Politics, politics and more fucking politics. I’ve barely the patience for any of it.”

Demyan highly doubted that Osip could wrap his head around most of it, let alone claim to have the patience to sit through many long meetings every day. There was a rumor that he hadn’t actually attended an official political meeting for the past three years.

“So I take it you didn’t call me here for matters of politics then?”

As if on cue, there was a soft knock on the door before a small, soft and devastatingly beautiful young woman entered, carrying an expensive bottle of vodka. Every man present preceded to devour her with their eyes – all, that was, except Demyan. He was too busy pitying her trembling mouth and the frightened look on her face.

She poured vodka for each of them, enduring every rough, fondling caress paid to her by Danshov and his men, before taking her leave. Veta, for her part, remained silent. Demyan had long learned that she had little sympathy for the plight of her fellow women. As long as things were going her way, she wouldn’t interfere.

And things would be going Veta’s way as long as Osip was in charge.

“To friendship.” Osip made a toast, his eyes lingering for a moment on every person present. “I don’t know what I would do without it in times like these.”

As the vodka burned it’s way smoothly down Demyan’s throat, he tried not to think that he knew exactly what Osip would do if he weren’t constantly surrounded by his friends and a battery of men to keep him safe.

He would die. Like a dog.

“You’re right, Demyan.” Having finished his glass, the smaller man set it down on the edge of his desk, where it joined numerous others. “I did not call you here for matters of state. At least, not strictly.” Osip belched loudly without bothering to excuse himself before he frowned. “Our American friends have finally managed to pawn off some goodwill case on me.” He sighed, his plump form sinking back down into his chair once more. “We are to entertain some diplomat for a few weeks, show her the sights – ensure that their leaders know nothing but good intentions on our part – as usual.”

Demyan cast a wayward glance at his sister, who had stopped toying with her knife. Veta held a particularly concerted hatred for America and Americans as she believed them to be the direct cause of their parents’ deaths.

Of course, before the Boykovs had been able to make it to America, they were found out and executed. “I assume she’ll stay in your mansion?” He kept his tone casual, though he couldn’t imagine that a lone American diplomat in today’s Russia would do very well. The Kremlin, as well as the city of Moscow itself, was a den a vipers, each more dangerous than the last. And currently, thanks to the discreet efforts of Lichakov, anti-American sentiment was running high.