It’s a rival family.
I don’t know which, but I can say that for certain.
I thought Boris had made peace with the Contis. Signed some stupid treaty between them after the last battle spilled over into a schoolyard full of children. No one wants to see that happen. It hasn’t before, and I personally helped take care of our men who allowed it to go down and participate in it.
Could be the O’Boyles.
Unlikely, though. They don’t really give a shit about what we’re doing right now, and definitely not enough to start a war over the step-son of the head of the Volkov Bratva.
Aside from that, I have no fucking idea who would make a special trip all the way out here to kill me, but they are going to be sorely disappointed.
I have no goddamn intention of dying today.
Grabbing my wallet and gun from the side table, I check the clip, snatch the only other one I have, and shove both in the pocket of the hoodie while I stick the Glock in my waistband. I continue toward my snow boots as the shooters stop to reload, grabbing them and heading toward the fireplace right before bullets rain down on me again.
I tug the boots on and lace them up, my heart pumping in my chest. My adrenaline has spiked and there is definitely a little concern for what’s going to happen next, but these fuckers have pissed me right off and that’s what I’m running with right now.
I crouch down inside the mouth of the brick, hoping it’s enough shelter for me to fire off a text of my own and just when I pull up my alpha’s name, I get one more from what has to be a burner phone.
UNKNOWN: Leave your phone and run.
What the fuck is going on?
This is goddamn bizarre.
It definitely isn’t the Gallos or O’Boyles if someone is warning me, but I haven’t been friends with anyone else even close to connected since before college.
Not that I have the fucking time to sit around and figure this shit out. For all I know, these assholes could have smoke bombs or grenades waiting for me.
I stare at the last text a little longer, trying to decide if this unknown number is friend or foe and whether or not I should listen to them.
Either way, I’m a sitting fucking duck and unless I want to make like Santa and hide in the goddamn chimney, I have to do something.
Looks like I’ll be running today.
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, channeling my anger into something more constructive that will help me get the fuck out of here, then I check my gun one more time to make sure it’s secure and do just that.
I start slithering through the cottage again, making my way toward my nest and the dummy panel inside. Once I have it open, I slide into the crawl space and follow it until the ground gets colder and harder, and I can start to smell fresh snow.
That’s cute.
There’s already a couple feet out there but if it recently dumped on us or is actively snowing right now, that’s going to make things a little trickier. Then again, would this be a real mafia hit if it wasn’t a gigantic pain in the ass?
The crawl space starts to take on the shape of the natural terrain, dipping and rolling along the hillier parts as I get further outside. I have to slow down once I can see that it is, in fact, snowing fucking buckets because the space between the bottom slat and ground gets wider the closer I get to the far side of my bedroom and en-suite. It could easily blow my cover but it also allows for me to get an idea of whether or not I was right about being completely surrounded.
I hate being fucking right.
There are four pairs of military grade snow boots pacing the back of the cottage, the two on the ends seemingly moving toward either side of my little house before coming back to the center to speak softly with the other two.
In Russian.
These asshats are speaking my native tongue so I’m right again when it comes to the Gallos and O’Boyles. This is another Bratva, probably one going after Boris’ territory or something and making a play by taking me out. That doesn’t really make sense, not when my step-dad has two of his own biological children that would probably make more of an impact, butwhatever. Maybe they assume I’m the safest option because even though he’s raised me and would most likely be upset about my death, it would be a different kind of statement to murder his flesh and blood. One with very different results, I’m sure.
As quietly as possible, I continue dragging myself through the dirt and snow toward the farthest end of the cottage, wondering how the fuck something that is technically only three and half rooms is this goddamn long, before I’m facing south. If I can get out and into the woods, go further into the mountains, I should be able to lose them long enough to double back past here and head to Albany. It’ll be brutal as fuck on foot but it’s too risky trying to come back for my truck. If I’m lucky, I’ll hit another occupied cabin along the way and be able to call for help from there.
Waiting for a few agonizing minutes, I watch to make sure there isn’t anyone patrolling this side of the house then try to center myself so I’m hopefully out of everyone’s line of sight. And as soon as I see that it’s clear, I move.
I pull myself out of the crawl space as fast as I can then start booking it even faster, tearing off into the forest like my ass is on fire while I ignore the way I can now feel how sore I am today.
