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“I have,” says Cristo.
My head snaps up. Every muscle in my body tightens simoultaneously, primed for the hunt. “What do you know? What have you found?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
I growl. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Hey,” he snaps. “Watch your tone.”
I jam my fists into my pockets, reining in the urge to snarl again. Popescus are not uptight like those Lupumafiebastards. We scream. We curse. We fight. But still—power is power. Respect is respect. I can’t let my endless frustration get the best of me, and, now more than ever, I need to know whatever the hell he found out.
A horrible thought makes me pause. I grip the back of the chair in front of me and blurt out, “Is he already dead?”
“No…” he replies slowly, his eyes softening slightly. I can’t stand the pity; it must be real bad if he pities me. But a man with the kind of vendetta I’m carrying doesn’t need pity. I need nothing more than information. I’ll take care of the rest.
“Don’t worry about me, boss,” I joke. “Even if he’s the president of the United States, I’ll still figure out a way to kill him. Go on, tell me what you know.”
“The Chechens have produced some interesting intel,” he begins. “And it has to do with your mission.”
The Chechens are the moles he’s sent to infiltrate the Bratva. The Bratva are not made of clan or family members like other mafia groups. No, they are a brotherhood of thieves, bred in the prisons and gulags of Siberia. I’m sure they’ve tried their best to infiltrate us, but the difference is that we’re family. They can’t hire strangers to con their way into our clans. They’d have to flip someone who’s already on the inside.
My grip on the brown leather chair tightens. “What is it?”
“You’re not gonna like it…”
Cristo never hesitates. This must be really bad. But I don’t care. I’ll deal with whatever comes. “Fuck, Cristo, out with it already.”
Lucian shoots to his feet and stands beside me in solidarity.
“Alexei Kotov.”
Lucian furrows his brow and asks, “What’s the new Bratva boss got to do with Marku’s brother?”
Cristo turns to me and answers, “He’s your brother’s killer.”
Whoosh.The room spins for a moment, my vision swirling on the intricate paisleys of the silk handwoven rug beneath my feet. I stumble back like I’ve been punched in the gut and grab the back of the chair for support. “W-what?”
“You heard me.”
So many emotions rush through me. Elation at finally knowing who it is, who I must kill. A sense of completion, of satisfaction, knowing that I will do my duty. I want to shout at the top of my lungs, to beat my chest and cry victory.
And coming in right behind that is a rush of sorrow, as it does anytime I think of Cristian. He’s gone, no matter what I do to avenge his death.
That’s quickly followed by an ache of longing because I most likely won’t survive this murder. I’ll leave Crina behind. I clutch my chest, my heart cracking and gushing pain. Pain and remorse. She’ll feel betrayed again. She’ll be furious. She’ll be devastated. But what can I do? Let Cristian down instead? Pain builds in the back of my throat. No, betraying my brother is not an option.
Determination rears its head again, demanding that I complete my task no matter what. And just when I think I’ve controlled my panic over abandoning Crina, another bout of guilt pummels through me. My heart’s breaking. I want to roar out my fury at the injustice of it all. I finally win her love back and now I’m going to toss it away and hurt her in the process, hurt her like I’ve always feared.
Breaking into my spiraling thoughts, Lucian says, “Fuck, it’d be easier to assassinate the president than him.”
Anton stands up and joins us. “Truth, brother, truth. That man’s protection is insane. Since the last Bratva pig and his brigadier went up in smoke, the new one has been cagey. His compound on Manhattan Beach is built like a fortress. That’s the heart of Little Odessa, of all the Bratva in Brookyln. It’s impenetrable.”
“But if we can kill him, that would be a feather in our cap,” muses Lucian. “Luca and Nicu Lupu bombed the last Bratva boss and they’ve been holding it over our heads ever since, as if they’re the bestmafieclan around. We can prove that we do what they do. Fuck, we can do it better.”
“And if we do it, it will be a notable start to my reign assef,” adds Cristo.
My heart races, the bloodlust of the hunt flowing through me. My head snaps to attention. “I’ll do it. It doesn’t matter if I have to stake out his house twenty-four seven and follow him everywhere he goes. I will succeed. It’s my destiny.”
“I trust you, Marku,” Cristo says, his voice slowing in hesitation. He pauses, giving me a sharp look, scrutinizing my face for something. “But he is her father.” He arches his brows in speculation. “You know that, right? You sure you want to be the one to put a bullet through his head?”
