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I know it is because I’m so on edge.
All of the men around me are avoiding eye contact, shuffling their feet, and twiddling their fingers. My frayed nerves are setting them on edge, so I take another long drink of my coffee, letting it scorch its way down my throat, and then stand tall.
“I’m exhausted,” I admit. “I’m tired, and I need ideas on how to get my family back. Now.”
The men offer up ideas at once. Eve and Milaya are mine, but in a way, all of these men think of them as family, too. That is what being in the Bratva means. We look out for one another. We defend one another. And the Irish broke into that family and robbed two of our own, and I know my men will do what they can to help.
“If they’ve been gathering in secret, then it shouldn’t be hard with our underground contacts to figure out where. We can attack,” one man says.
“Rian Morrison is the person behind this. Let’s kill her. Chop the beast off at the head.”
“Storm the FBI headquarters and take them back.”
One by one the ideas are tossed up and then batted down.
We don’t know where Eve and Milaya are. Until we do, we can’t go into any building guns blazing or we risk killing them in the crossfire.
Or, even worse, they could be killed by the Irish in retaliation for any attack we wage. Whatever we do, we have to do it covertly. This isn’t an instance when we can use brute force and get the results we want.
“We don’t have the time to infiltrate their ranks,” another lieutenant says. “We are good at fighting and killing. I say we stick to our strengths.”
A few men nod in agreement, but even more shake their heads. “If you want Eve’s death on your shoulders, then fine, bust into the local Irish hangouts and start announcing that we are hunting her down. But I, for one, think there has to be a more delicate way to go about this.”
Slowly, the general enthusiasm for getting my family back starts to wane and tempers start to flare. The men are arguing about which course of action is best, raising their voices to be heard over one another until I can barely hear myself think.
“Enough!” I scream, slamming my coffee cup down on the table hard enough that it shatters. Ceramic shards spray into the air and coffee dribbles over the side of the table. The men look at me, wide-eyed.
“Truthfully, I didn’t think any of you would offer up an idea better than mine, but I wanted to be sure.”
They look at one another, clearly questioning my sanity, but I don’t care. I know what I need to do.
“I may need your help later on, but right now, every step of this mission is up to me.” I sit down in one of the kitchen chairs and rest my elbows on the edge, resisting the urge to lay my head down and go to sleep. “The Irish have clearly been planning this attack for a long time, so we need to be cautious. The last thing I want is for us to feel compelled to act and make a mess of things. That would only be playing into their hands.”
“So, what do we do?” Grigory asks.
“You wait for my orders,” I say. “You don’t move or breathe or act without my permission, do you understand?”
Everyone nods, including Grigory. Then, he looks up at me. “So, what are you going to do?”
I sigh and press myself upright. My legs feel like cement blocks, but I know I can’t rest yet. Not until I have a plan.
“I’m going to visit Rick Koban.”
Grigory snorts and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and a few of the other men join in, following his lead. But one sharp look from me is enough to smooth the annoyed expression from my right-hand man’s face. He sits up taller, and the other lieutenants quiet.
* * *
Iknock on the door just after lunch and step back, waiting for Rick to answer.
After the meeting with the lieutenants this morning, I laid down in bed and tried to sleep, but Eve’s scent was everywhere. Every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts turned to her, alternating between dreams of her lying beside me and others of her being ripped away. I could hear Milaya crying, but when I’d slide to the end of the bed to go and comfort her, the noise would stop and the house would descend into complete silence.
Eventually, I gave up, swallowed down another mug of coffee, and headed for Rick’s house.
His front porch is immaculate. No cobwebs or dust or lawn debris. Just smooth concrete and spotless bricks. He must have someone come out and clean it every morning.
The door opens slightly, and Rick peeks his head through a crack in the door. His hair is the same length and shade as mine, though his face is more weathered, grizzled. When he sees it is me, he opens the door a bit more, but it isn’t a warm welcome by any means.
“Luka,” he says with a nod. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
