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My brothers shout at each other. At me. It’s damn near impossible to think.
“What the hell happened out there, Andrei?” Damien asks. “You should have told us if you were planning to go to war with the Antonovs. Now we have no time to prepare.”
“Fuckingsaysomething, Andrei!” Samuil grumbles. “What are we going to do?”
I raise my hand, cutting everyone off. My brothers fall silent in an instant.
Roman is right. Our fragile peace was only afforded to us because the Antonovs didn’t see us as a big enough threat. Our tiny sliver of land wasn’t worth their time or resources. But now we’ve opened fire—though I honestly can’t tell who started shooting at whom. We’ve shattered whatever semblance of reluctant coexistence we had.
The damage is done. Irreparable. The Antonovs will see this as a brazen act of disrespect, and I have no doubt they will enact their revenge. And as much as I want to get to the bottom of this, to reach out to Sandra to figure out what the hell she was talking about, I need to think about my family first.
“Listen closely,” I tell my brothers. “Alert our drivers, all our men. We need to be on high alert. The Antonovs outnumber us fifty to one, so avoiding loss of life is top priority for us. Our second priority is keeping the southern okrug from being swallowed back into their territory.”
“Are we digging our heels in?” Leo asks me.
I shake my head. “We have one massive advantage over the Antonovs, and that’s our taxi network. They won’t risk opening fire on our taxis because they have no way of knowing if we’re transporting civilians. The Antonov Bratva won’t harm civilians on purpose. Our transportation network will move us wherever we need to go.”
Samuil nods. This is his wheelhouse. Fighting for survival, fighting for the thrill of victory. “We’ll hit them hard and fast. We’ll beat those Antonov dogs back, and as they retreat, we can take up their abandoned territory for ourselves.”
Something conflicted twists inside me. Claiming Moscow had always been our main goal, but now it doesn’t sit right. It’s a solid plan as far as plans go, but I can’t just tell my brothers not to go through with it. They’ll know something’s up, and I’m honestly not prepared to have that conversation right now.
“Get moving,” I tell them.
“What about you?” Damien asks me.
I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose. If someone doesn’t end up killing me tonight, the massive headache pulsing in my skull will definitely do the trick. “I need to… make a phone call,” I say. “Now, get out. Be on guard. This war has just begun.”
* * *
You son of a bitch! You set us up!
Sandra’s words echo in my ear, the memory of her fear and fury tearing me apart inside. I don’t understand what she meant. I didn’t set her up. In fact, she told me to come to the Barovsky in the first place.
I try calling her.
Again, and again, and again.
I think about the young man who was shot. He couldn’t have been older than twenty. Just a kid. Sandra’s brother. No wonder she was so upset. So afraid. But the more I think about it, the more everything doesn’t add up. The adrenaline high I’m running on is making it difficult to remember the exact order of events, but I’m almost entirely sure the kid was shotbeforemy brothers and I even arrived at the scene.
Which means someone got their first. Someone who wanted to ensure a fight broke out.
I plan on exterminating every last one of those rats, and you’re going to help me do it.
Ivanovich. It has to be him.
The realization that I’m being used as a pawn in someone else’s game pisses me off to no end. I won’t be manipulated. I won’t let the bastard use me to his own ends. My mind reels. How long has he been watching us? He must have decided to use Sandra against me when he realized the hit in Riga didn’t work out, but the only way he could have known was if he was nearby to see the whole thing go down.
Which means he’s close. Even now, he could be observing my every move. The detective really is something else. Unhinged and hellbent—a horrible combination to have in an enemy. As soon as I manage to contact Sandra, I promise myself Ivanovich is the first fucker on my list. Until then, though…
I dial her number again. This time, it doesn’t immediately go to voicemail. It rings five, six, seven times until—
“Stop calling me,” she hisses.
“Sandra—”
“Fuck.” She sobs. The sound of her crying hurts me more than if she had slapped me across the face. “Andrei,why?”
“Listen to me very carefully, Sandra. I had no intention of harming you or your brother.”
