AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You’re, like, the designated family cook,” Charlotte says. “Come on. We can’t go cracking heads on an empty stomach.”
With a weary grumble, I start toward the stove. “Fine. God, you’re all insufferable.”
“We’refamily,” Roman corrects.
Kuznetsov & Sons Butcher Shop is a real hole in the wall, wedged between a dry cleaner, and what I’m pretty sure is a condemned apartment building judging by its boarded up windows and the massive lock on the front door. The awning that provides shade for the display window is covered in moss and leaves, practically rotting. The inside is completely dark, but even without power, the place looks so unwelcoming it’s frankly a surprise it’s managed to stay in business for this long.
Samuil tries the door. He shakes his head. “Locked.”
I tilt my head in Damien’s direction. “Check the back.”
He nods. “On it.”
Roman and I wait on the curb, looking around at our surroundings. It’s relatively quiet this morning. Not a lot of foot traffic. This is a sleepy neighborhood. Unassuming. Even if we wanted to ask around, there aren’t enough people out and about to ask questions. Tracking down our missing butcher might be a far more difficult task than I first anticipated.
“How much has this guy stolen from us?” Roman asks.
“If he’s the one skimming, enough to retire to Fiji.”
“We can’t let him get away with it.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
I’m growing impatient, my fingers twitching. I haven’t craved a smoke in a long time. In fact, I haven’t thought about a cigarette once since meeting Nikita. Maybe there’s something to this whole stress theory. Now that Andrei and Sandra are back to take the helm, maybe it will take some of the burden off my shoulders. Still, being in the field isn’t ideal. I’d much prefer to work behind the scenes, not chase after money that’s rightfully ours.
Damian returns. “The back door’s locked from the inside.”
Irritated, I step forward, using the momentum to drive my heel into the front door’s lock. It swings open violently, bits of the wooden frame splintering off. I don’t have time or patience for this.
“Do a sweep,” I order. “Anything that might be a clue as to where they went.”
My brothers move quickly, efficiently. Unfortunately, this isn’t our first rodeo. Back when we were nothing more than common street thugs, we had to chase our fair share of debtors. We searched the premises, looking for anything and everything that might have resale value.
The butcher shop has been pretty much trashed beyond recognition. Kuznetsov might have expected us to come a-knocking, so he salted the earth before our arrival. There’s still meat in the refrigerator, left to spoil. There’s no cash to be found in the register, gutted for every kopek. The processing machines in the back could fetch us a decent sum, but upon closer inspection, I realize they’ve all been dismantled. Parts are missing or destroyed. The butcher was thorough.
I force my way into the tiny little office in the back. It’s no bigger than a broom closet, a tight squeeze. Documents and receipts lie shredded on the floor, an impossible jigsaw left for me to sort through. Even if I could put everything back together, it’d take too long. I doubt I’ll find anything of use here with regards to their finances.
A bitter taste coats my tongue. This isn’t turning out the way I’d hoped. I can’t help but shoulder the blame. If only we had acted faster, maybe we could have caught our man before he escaped into the night. I’m going to have to report back to Andrei about this, and that’s never a conversation anyone wants to have. He may be my brother, but he’s still the ruthless leader of the Bratva. I can only hope he’ll be lenient with me for old time’s sake.
“Anything?” Roman calls from the front.
I’m about to yell back when something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. A picture frame, lying flat on its face on the small administrative desk. I pick it up, exposing the photograph within. It’s a picture of Kuznetsov and his sons, after which this butcher shop was named. Kuznetsov himself is easy to identify given the bloody apron he wears. His sons, four of them, are also surprisingly recognizable.
Staring me in the face are Arman, Vlad, Georgi, and Kostya.
The night shift.
The motherfucking night shift.
This whole time, they’ve been right under my nose. How could I have been such an idiot? Not only have they been skimming off the top, but they even got my approval for a Christmas bonus. Those assholes took advantage of my rare—and rightfully so, it would seem—kindness, and I’ve never been more pissed. They have made a fool out of me. They’ve made a fool of the Bratva. I have no choice but to go to extreme measures, something I was desperately hoping to avoid.
They’ll find no pity from me. If they really were that desperate for the cash, I’m sure we could have come to agreeable terms. But they still stole from us, stole fromme. I don’t always like what I have to do, but now they’ve given me no choice in the matter.
I present the picture to my brothers who have now gathered in the front of the shop. With a glance, they understand the severity of the situation.
Roman reaches for his phone. “I’ll call Andrei. We’ll bring them in.”
“What if they're gone already?” Damien asks.
