Apfftvibrates my lips. “If you wanted to shoot me, you would have done it the instant I turned my back to you. That’s how most agents operate, isn’t it?”
Incapable of denying the truth, he houses his gun onto the holster on his hip before he joins me above the hub of the restaurant I’ve been watching like a hawk the past hour. It isn’t every day a booking is made in the name of a notorious gangster, especially in a town he has no right to be in without permission, so I don’t need to mention the fact this restaurant is way below Cartel standards. It has me suspicious Theresa’s claims about an alleged Russian takeover were gospel. That frustrates me even more than my enemies’ belief they can arrive in my town without notice. I’d usually kill a man for less. Alas, some of Roxanne’s quirks rubbed off on me—most notably her inquisitiveness.
“He’s smarter than he looks,” Smith mutters in my ear when Brandon asks, “Who’s he meeting with?”
For all he knew, I could have been scoping potential clients for the prostitution conglomerate the Petrettis have mingled in for decades. Only someone in the know understands the boss only gets his hands dirty when the target is top grade.
Albert Sokolov may not be feared as he was once, but his murder count alone ensures his respect remains high enough if he were to be killed, it wouldn’t be done by a foot soldier. He’s Vladimir Popov’s number two, and up until ten minutes ago, I was convinced he was here on behalf of Nikolai. Now I’m eating more than my words.
“An old Russian sanction was here a few years back, but there’s been no rumblings from their barracks in almost a decade.”
I smirk when Brandon cringes about the cobwebs on his jacket before replying, “He’s not meeting with a fellow Russian.”
Feeling generous, and a little bit lost on how to absorb what’s happening today, I nudge my head to the scope of my gun, offering Brandon the chance to cream his pants. Hethinkshe has a vault-load of weapons at his disposal. He’s dead fucking wrong. The guns the Feds are playing with have nothing on my arsenal of toys.
“What the fuck?” Brandon mumbles under his breath a few seconds later, expressing my exact sentiment when I discovered the reason for Albert’s visit. He isn’t here to stake a claim on Nikolai’s birthright, he’s here to schmooze Isaac Holt—the very man who ran Russians out of his town only a couple of years ago.
“Party Pooper,” Rocco murmurs when Brandon’s brief perusal of the room below is quickly chased by him, removing a handkerchief from his pocket so he can scrub his fingerprints from a weapon the Bureau would give anything to log into evidence. “Who the fuck carries around a snot-rag in their pocket these days? What is he? A hundred!”
I have no reason to hold in my chuckles about Rocco’s witty comment when Brandon warns, “Unless you want to be stuck up here all night, or better yet, detained in a holding cell, I suggest you leave now. This place is about to be raided.” The concern in his voice has me wondering which team he bats for. Right now, the odds aren’t swinging in his favor. I don’t have anything against gay men, I just can’t understand how some of them give up the holy grail without first sampling it.
I guess I can’t talk. I’ve never tasted a cunt as sweet as Roxanne’s, and I let her walk away from me. Am I regretting my decision? Ask me again when I’m not stationed outside of her ranch every night, monitoring her every move. I might be in the right headspace then to give you an accurate answer.
After dismantling my customized M-4, I remove a single sheet of paper out of my duffle bag and thrust it into Brandon’s chest. “With the government eager to do some digging on my businesses, I commenced some of my own.”
I lower my eyes to the photograph of Isabelle I snapped earlier this week. With Theresa’s claims of a takeover ringing in my ears and discovering multiple drawings of Isabelle in Roxanne’s sketchpad, I looked a little deeper into Isabelle’s connection with the Russian Mafia. It isn’t pretty, and it pains me to admit, the controversy isn’t coming from Isabelle. She’s on my father’s radar, and he’s making costly mistakes to ensure both she and Isaac know it.
After a quick shake of my head to remove the negativity inside it, I ask, “Do you know who she’s related to?”
When Brandon takes in Isabelle’s photo, his throat works through a brutal swallow. I didn’t have Smith age my photograph. I kept it simple and to the point. Even the date in the far corner remains.
My lips twist when protectiveness vibrates out of Brandon in invisible waves. He looks like he’s about to blow his top, and he has everyone, including Rocco, paying careful attention to every expression that crosses his face. A man only projects this level of fearlessness when he either wants to fuck the woman he’s protecting, or he’s related to her. There’s no in-between.
“Ah… so you do know who she is.” Even knowing Isabelle isn’t causing the ruckus in Hopeton I pretend she is, hopeful it will have Brandon on the back foot. The more Feds I have nibbling out of my hand, the quicker Fien will be returned. “If she is what this is about…” I motion my head to the hole in the wall I used to line up my target, “… we’re going to have issues. This isn’t Russian territory—”
“She has nothing to do with this. I don’t even know if Isaac is aware who her father is.” His mortified expression is priceless. It makes me laugh. It isn’t a hinged, sane man laugh. It shows just how deeply I’ve dived down the rabbit hole the past few weeks.
With my mood now hostile, it’s an effort to act unaffected by it, but I give it my best shot, mindful Brandon and I aren’t on the same team. We weren’t when his team helmed the operation that had my daughter’s whereabouts unknown for months. We won’t be when I fix the injustice of his mistakes. “Bring me everything you have in five days.IfI find it satisfactory, I’ll share some hard truths with you.”
“And if it isn’t?”
My smile should tell him everything, but just in case it doesn’t, I expose exactly what will happen to him if he double-crosses me. With my hand shaped into a gun, and my eyes slitted, I press my fingers to his temple and mimic the sound of me blowing his brains out.
“Five days, Brandon. Don’t keep me waiting.”
I make it out of the tight opening easier than I did crawling into it. That might have something to do with the deflation of my ego. I stormed up here loaded and ready for carnage. I leave without a single drop of blood being shed. Some may say it’s because I’m maturing, and with that comes greater understanding.
My testimony wouldn’t be anywhere near as polite as that. I’ve always been a grumpy, surly bastard, but it’s been worse the past few weeks. I don’t know why. I’m used to people disappointing me. I just never figured Roxanne would be added to the long list.
“Boy in blue on your nine when you exit.”
As I make my way through the narrow corridors of a Chinese restaurant like I own the place, I jerk up my chin, advising Rocco I understand his command. Boy in blue is his nickname for Detective Ryan Carter. He’s one of the rare good ones around here.
It doesn’t make us friends, though.
While breaking through the rickety back entrance of a restaurant on the outskirts of Hopeton, I put on my game face. I’m weaponed up, ready for war, and heading straight toward a man who won’t take bribes no matter how hard I push him. I’d let you call me insane if I wouldn’t have to kill you for it. “You know you’d get more action if you placed yourself amongst the riffraff.”
Ryan smirks. It’s as cool as his blue eyes. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve witnessed from sitting back and watching the shit unfold.”
