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Nik snorts and I stiffen. He must notice because he steals his face and says, “Yes, Pakhan.”
“I believe Senator Hope is in our pocket. I want a significant donation made under the corporation’s name and let’s remind him we own him now.” I lean back in my chair, placing my hand behind my head as I turn to the high-rise windows. The sky is littered with pinks and yellows as the sun appears over the horizon.
Keeping my gaze on the city, I ask, “Is there space in warehouse nine for twelve additional shipments? The Irish want AKs and Colts as soon as possible.”
“I think we have the room, but we need to add a tenth if the Irish are going to want to outfit their West Coast people as well,” Nik answers.
“Email the accountant. Tell him we need four locations to choose from by the end of next week.” Business is growing, and it’s impossible to keep inventory. I’ve managed to pay off several precincts within the city and the chief of police is on my payroll. But the more properties I add, the larger our footprint and the more eyes on the Bratva.
“Anything else, Boss?” Nik adds while pulling out his phone.
“Yes, I want profiles on all the big names attending the senator’s campaign event.”
“Done.” Nik stands and walks toward the door. He peers back at me, giving me the implication he wants to say something profound—I’m not having it.
“Out,” I bark, and Nik snickers before opening the door to leave.
* * *
Natallia comesin around 1 p.m. with lunch ordered from one of my favorite restaurants. The chef is a friend of mine from Moscow, and I brought him over after my father passed. He makes the best pelmeni. One that sends me back to my childhood when Nik and I would raid my babushka’s kitchen and sneak out the leftovers.
My father was often busy. I spent a lot of time with my grandmother after my mother died when I was six. The guilt threatens to surface as I rack my brain for any memories of my mother—I can’t. I don’t remember her. Aside from a few old photos I managed to gather from my father’s belongings, I can’t even picture her face.
Lifting the lid and dolloping the sour cream the chef sends with the pelmeni, I bring up our security feed at the warehouses. This is a lunchtime ritual, clicking through the feeds as I eat to watch my men work. Warehouse three is where I stop my perusal and notice Boris, one of my guards, has a man strapped to a chair. He is a newer guard, the son of a trusted man for my father. I haven’t had much time to observe him, but now is a perfect opportunity.
He is questioning one of the shippers, who, we learned last week, was taking weapons for side sales. This is common in my line of work, people thinking that a few weapons here and there won’t raise any red flags—but I always notice. Boris is tasked with sussing out his loyalty to me.
While eating, I watch Boris question the man. He takes several punches to the left side of his face and from this angle on the feed, it’s evident his nose is broken. Two more of my guards walk into the room, each crossing their arms as Boris continues. He picks up a pair of pliers, and the man pisses himself. The guard closest to the door comes behind the man and yanks his head back as Boris extracts the man’s teeth.
I have no audio. I’m unsure what the man is saying, if anything. He probably won’t talk. Setting down my food, I dial Boris’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Boss,” he says, panting as though taking a few teeth from a man’s mouth caused him to break a sweat.
“Did you get any information?” I ask.
“Nyet.” Boris practically growls through the line.
“Put a bullet in his head and move on. There is work to get done.” Without waiting for his reply, I hang up.
Standing, I move to the bar and pour a glass of vodka. Swirling the glass, I hover at the windows scanning over my city, my kingdom, and my legacy.
I’m the only heir of the Morozov family. My parents did not have any more children before my mother died. My father had his share of women he sought after on the regular, but he never remarried.
Something on the monitor catches my attention. Boris lifts a pistol to the right leg of the man and pulls the trigger. I roll my eyes at the obvious power trip. Snatching my phone off the desk, he unloads another shot into the man’s other leg. I dial the guard by the door as Boris lifts the pistol to the man’s head and pulls the trigger.
Two seconds later, the guard in the back pulls his gun, and Boris goes down. I hang up the phone and take a sip of my drink, rolling the crisp liquor in my mouth. No one takes liberties within my organization.
Chapter4
Kate
Banging on the door jolts me from my sleep. My hand fumbles around for my phone on the nightstand.Who is here at 7 a.m.?
“Ouch,”I growl as my phone slips from my half-awake grip and plummets to my nose. I snag it off my face and let it fall, with my arm, to the floor. So much for my Saturday sleep in, and the need to recover.
I worked a late event last night where the men were handsy and the women rude. Being a server for a high-end catering company was not in my plans, but I need the money. Renee, my boss, tries to give me as many hours as possible, but it’s not enough to save much for school. About three months ago, I had to stop my vet clinic volunteer hours because those wouldn’t pay the bills.
A text from Derek vibrates on my phone—I’ll read that later. My eyes flutter, sunlight fading in and out until they close again.
