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I toss my lit cigarette behind me, hoping someone will catch it in their mouth and choke on it. I don’t have time for this shit.
“Hey, pull over, motherfucker,” barks a man from beside me. He’s wearing a long blonde beard that’s braided at the end, and his face is so red that I’d be surprised if he was sober.
I hate having to deal with these punks. There’s nothing worse than someone attempting to take money from me because they don’t know who I am. Not only do they waste my time, but they get nothing out of it. Not a single dollar is going in anyone’s pockets but mine tonight.
“Bratva,” I shout back at him, nodding and giving him a cheeky grin.
“Get the fuck off your bike before I have my guys run you off the goddamn road,” he shouts in return.
I guess he didn’t hear me the first time, but there’s too many of them for me to risk driving any further. Suddenly, Angus’s motorcycle accident doesn’t feel like it was much of an accident at all.
I slow down, and the gang of bikers slow down with me until we’re stopping in a cluster on the open road. There aren’t that many of them, maybe half a dozen, and I’m not even sure they’re affiliated with the Triple Six Angels. If they were, they’d know who I was and leave me alone.
I step off my Harley as the bearded leader comes up to me, tucking his hands in his front pocket and hurling a ball of spit on the ground in front of my boots. He cocks his head to the side, looking me over as I stand in front of him in silence.
“This is a toll road. Pay the toll,” he grumbles.
I look at him, then at his gang, then back at him again. “My name is Savva,” I state flatly. “Ring a bell?”
“As that a fucking Russian accent I hear?” he asks, leaning in and frowning. He looks over his shoulder at his gang. “This clown is pretty far from home, ain’t he?”
They all laugh with their leader, oblivious to the tragic consequences that will befall them if they don’t let me go. I don’t particularly like biker gangs, especially not when they think they own the streets that belong to me.
“I don’t think you understand,” I say, maintaining a calm voice that betrays the rage that’s bubbling up inside of me. “I said my name was Savva.”
“I heard you the first time,” the bearded man snarls. “So shut your fucking mouth and pay up, and no, we don’t accept rubles.”
I roll my eyes, which makes him turn a deeper shade of red.
“Alright, motherfucker. I don’t have all day. Fork over the money or I’m going to gut your ass,” he says, pulling a switchblade from his back pocket and pointing it at me.
“Not interested,” I reply flatly.
He narrows his eyes at me, then motions toward one of his gang members with the knife. “Johnny, go search his shit since he wants to act cute. I’ll keep him here.”
Johnny, a shorter man with a missing eye, climbs off his motorcycle, walking over to mine as his leader keeps me at knifepoint. He brandishes a knife of his own, and while he could just as easily use the zipper on the saddle bag, he stabs it with his knife, slicing it open lengthwise. The leather rips with a deep purr.
Money falls out onto the road, the same money given to me by Oakley as payment. Not only is that far too much to let a biker gang steal, but I also feel a connection to it, as though the sexual tension between Oakley and me is stored within the bills themselves. I’m not going to let these morons walk away with it, even if they outnumber me six to one.
“Jackpot,” Johnny says, his one eye nearly popping out of his head as he scoops the money into his arms.
The bearded leader grins at me, shaking his head. “Now, where does a pathetic little gremlin like you come up with a sum of money this large.”
Gremlin? I’m twice his size, and considerably more put-together. I don’t need some grizzly old man telling me who the gremlin is.
“It’s none of your fucking business where my money comes from. I’m the leader of the Savva Bratva Family, and if you don’t return the money you’ve taken immediately, I’m going to make sure you pay the ultimate price,” I announce, my voice so deep and commanding that a few of the gang members nearly fall off their motorcycles.
Even the bearded leader pulls his head back, his wrist going limp for a moment before he’s able to compose himself and thrust his switchblade back out toward me. “You’re playing a dangerous game, you fucking freak.”
“As are you,” I reply, crossing my arms to hide my intentions and catch him off-guard. “But only one of us will walk away from this in one piece.”
The bearded leader turns his head to Johnny to say something, which is my sign to act. I reach down to my holster, pulling out my gun and shooting from the hip, hitting the bearded man in his stomach a few times before taking aim at Johnny.
Johnny throws his hands up, dropping the money on the ground and jumping toward his motorcycle. I expect someone to pull a gun and shoot back, but nobody has the balls to face me after I killed their leader. They race away from the scene like cockroaches exposed to light.
My ears are still ringing as I gather the money off the pavement, counting every dollar before putting it into the other saddle bag that hasn’t been cut open.
The bearded man bleeding out on the asphalt hasn’t moved since he collapsed there, but to be certain that he’s dead, I tap my boot into his ribcage a few times. I don’t get so much as a grunt or groan.
