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Sokolov’s archnemesis wasn’t who worried me. Sokolov, the ornery bastard, could hold his own. What worried me was the fact that Aslanov had sent someone over to the US. The chess pieces were moving on the board, but I couldn’t see his ultimate play. Why the US? He’d been rotting in a Russian prison for the past twenty-plus years. His business had dwindled, most of it taken over by other factions. Why would a man who was reportedly soon to be released focus on the States instead of his own territory?
There had to be something that was bringing him here. The more I thought about it, the more bad scenarios jumbled through my head. I felt caged in, almost trapped in my own home. There was a sense of sadness in the entire house that hadn’t been there for a long time. I eyed the plush couch across my desk. It had been Katya’s spot. She loved snuggling up there with a blanket over her legs and a book in her hands. No matter the weather, she always had her mother’s blanket with her. I knew she found it comforting. I hadn’t realized she had been my blanket.
A sudden synergy popped into my head. Was it a coincidence Aslanov had sent someone to our territory just one week after Katya had left? It had to be. I needed to get out of the house, needed to get my focus back. Her absence was messing with my mind.
I called for the twins. Damon walked in wearing tactical gear—he looked like he was going on a covert mission. Knowing him, my guess might not be that far off. There couldn’t be a bigger contrast between him and his brother, who was on his heels. One looked ready for war, the other as if he just came off the catwalk. Both were equally dangerous and slightly insane. All my men were. I had stopped thinking about what it said about me a long time ago.
“Aslanov has sent someone to the US. I want you to put your feelers out for a new player on our turf. He’s a Russian, though he might travel under a fake passport.” Aslanov was planning something, I just knew it. A tiger might lose his stripes, but never his ways. There was no absolution for a man who’d butchered children.
Damon was already on his phone, searching for a number. “On it.” He dialed and started pacing as he barked orders to whoever was on the other end of the line.
Angel perched on the edge of my desk. He’d put on his brass knuckles, which meant someone was going down tonight.
I pocketed my phone. “Going somewhere?”
“We’re going to visit Fung’s place and it’s not because we love his dumplings, which we do, naturally. Do you remember that time when he begged Damon for a loan? He was full-out on his knees with man-tears and everything. By the time he finished begging, Damon’s hairy ass was covered with lip prints.”
“He’s late with his payments?” That surprised me. From what I’d heard, Fung’s business was booming ever since his Chinese restaurant got nominated for a Michelin star.
“Late and then some.”
Damon got off the phone. “We’ve financed his whole damn business and now he wants out of the deal.”
“Maybe the Michelin star nomination went to his head,” Angel said. “He’s all ‘look at me, I’m a celebrity chef, you can’t touch me.’”
I’ve heard enough. “Let’s go.”
Damon raised his brows. “You comin’ with?”
“Yes.” I needed to blow off some steam.
“Isn’t that below your pay grade, oh glorious one?” Angel asked.
“We play together, we bleed together,” I repeated our mantra.
“This is going to be so much fun,” Angel said gleefully.
We arrived shortly before the restaurant opened. The fun started the moment the back door opened. Damon made his entrance by head-butting the first guy he saw. He took down two more men and paved the way for us to the kitchen.
“Fung!” Damon bellowed. “Show your face, you piece of shit.”
Chaos erupted around us. Kitchen personnel scattered like rats abandoning a sinking ship. It didn’t take long before their boss showed his face. The last time I’d seen Fung, he’d been begging me for protection against the Koreans and asking for a loan. I’d indulged him because the restaurant business was a good one for laundering money, and Angel had a love for fine dining.
The Fung who stood before us looked like a totally different man. He wore silk that wasn’t threadbare, and his oily skin shone bright like a fucking diamond.
“Damon,” he spat, raising his chin.
“Hello,Fung,” I said.
The moment Fung spotted me, he turned ashen and he gulped. “Kristoff.” Clearly, he’d expected to be dealing only with Damon and not with me personally. If he only knew that my enforcer was far more cruel whenever he felt slighted.
“You know how much I hate asking for my money,” I reminded him.
“No twenty percent. No more twenty percent!”
The fucker believed this was a negotiation.
I smiled. “Our cut just went up to twenty-five.”
