Page 3 of Mafia Obsession

The room goes quiet again as I stand over Razor. “You swore an oath to protect my blood. How dare you let a man touch her. Tear her dress and walk around my club half-exposed.”

He tries to speak, but I take out my gun and jam it into his mouth, breaking several of his teeth. He groans in pain, but I cock the hammer to shut him up.

“You were paid to do a job,” I snarl. “And you failed.”

“Please,” he cries, his mouth contorted in pain.

“You won’t need those teeth anymore. You ate your last meal. I hope it was something worth savoring over.” I yank my gun out of his mouth and use a handkerchief to wipe away the blood and drool. “Take him downstairs.” Iwave a hand to Wrath, the head sin. “You know which room and what to do.”

Which means: Make it quick. And stage it right, so his family doesn’t suspect anything.

The guards don’t question me. They’ve been trained not to. Razor is dying tonight.

If they mess up, tomorrow it could be one of them.

Chapter 2

Ares

“I’m late,” I say, getting into my Bentley.

“You’re never late, boss.” My driver peels away from the back alley outside Club Wicked, and we melt into downtown traffic.

My club runs on precision. Until it doesn’t. Until I’m forced to deal with someone who lays a hand on someone with my name. Usually, I delegate. But the situation with Lucia tonight required my attention.

Twenty minutes later, I’m marching up to Winterhall’s private entrance at a brisk pace, guards in tow. People part for me on the sidewalk, and in these moments, I know my legacy is secure.

A Bratva guard sees me approach and quickly stomps out his cigarette. Every syndicate operates here in New York. They all have one club, one warehouse, one hotel. It’s the one diplomatic neutral ground.

The Russian pulls open a steel door that leads to the posh offices above the Volkov gambling hall and says, “You’re late. See Drago.”

Jaw tight, I signal my guards to wait outside.

When I reach the private office for my monthly meeting with Pakhan Yuri Volkov, the enforcer says, “You’re late.”

If one more fucking person tells me I am late, they will do it through a breathing tube.

“Drago, tell your pakhan?—”

“His son is here,” the enforcer interrupts.

“Kirill is in town?” I ask. That’s unusual for the Bratva heir.

“Flew in this morning.”

Yuri Volkov, the head of the Chicago brotherhood, had sent his son Kirill to New York last year to put a bullet in Anton Barinov after he refused to recognize House Volkov as the national leadership. Then the Volkovstookthe Barinov brotherhood.

A trend to nationalize houses is on the rise.

The enforcer turns his head toward the office door. “Kirill will see you when he’s done.”

“Done withwhat?” I’m tempted to ask if he means Kirill has female company, though as I smooth my jacket, I hear a low, steady buzz behind the door.

It’s the unmistakable sound of a tattoo gun.

“Teaching someone a valuable lesson,” the enforcer responds.

“Five minutes. Then I leave,” I say, bristling at theupdateI’ll get from an arrogant heir rather than the strategic meeting I’ve had for months with his father.