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Right now, the only thing that might comfort me, I realize, is Tatiana in my arms. I yearn to call her, but I never even took her number. Fuck, I think to myself, pinching my fingers with the others, using pain as a distraction.
I’m in a daze; the world around me closes in. I focus on my breathing, trying to edge away the panic attack threatening to brim over. Then, I try to hear what people around me are saying, focusing on their mouths and noticing who is talking to whom. Colors, smells, shapes, I try to name them.
Suddenly, I overhear a familiar voice. Marco, one of our Vitalin suppliers, is speaking in hushed tones with some rough-looking men I don't recognize. But then, one of them moves his neck, and I notice the sign for the Bratva—Russian mafia.
We welcome everyone from the underworld, and I know the low-rung associates of the Bratva play in my casinos, but they never really interact with my suppliers. That’s off-limits. With my curiosity piqued, I slip to a nearby blackjack table, listening intently while pretending to observe the game.
"Are you sure the shipment will arrive on time?" one of the Russians asks, his voice barely audible over the din of the casino.
"Of course," Gino replies, his tone equally hushed. "We've never let you down before."
"Good," says one of the other two Russians, nodding. "The Boss has big plans for this load."
"Enough," I growl, stepping forward and interrupting their clandestine exchange. They were all startled at my sudden appearance, guilt evident on their faces. "What is the meaning of this? You know better than to conduct business with the Bratva on my turf."
"Philippe," Marco begins, attempting to placate me. "It's not what you think. We're just—"
"Save it," I snap, cutting him off. My anger boils over, and I can't help but think of my father, his illness, and the precariousposition in which it leaves our family. "You've made a grave mistake.”
"Philippe," Gino stammers, fear evident in his eyes. "We didn't mean for this to happen. We just—"
"Enough," I bark, silencing him once more. "I trusted you. I felt betrayed. And now you will pay the price."
While I deal with my suppliers, the traitorous bastards, one of the three Russians—his face a twisted mask of anger and resentment—pulls out a gun. The air in the room becomes thick with tension, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest. My men instinctively move to flank me, hands reaching for their weapons.
"Put that down," I snap, icy calm masking the adrenaline surging through my veins. "Or you'll regret it."
The Russian hesitates, his eyes darting between me and my crew. But then, perhaps sensing he's cornered and with nothing left to lose, he aims at Marco, trying to silence the man who can give us a clear picture of the exact tentacles the Bratva has gotten into our supplier market.
"NO!" I shout, lunging forward in anger. “Shoot them,” I motion at my men to put down the Bratva infiltrators.
Chaos erupts around us. My men open fire, bullets flying across the room. The Russian pulls the trigger, but I manage to shove Marco out of the way just as the bullet whizzes past him. I needMarco and Gino alive. Yes, they fucked up, but they’re the only ones who would know everything about the Russians and be able to give us the information we need.
If the Russians are getting shipments from my suppliers, they’ve already entered the market. I need to shut them down.
I hear a thud, followed by a pained grunt, as Gino leaps onto the gunman and wrestles the weapon from his grip.
Still on the floor, I scramble to my feet, my ears ringing from the cacophony of gunfire. As the dust settles, I take in the carnage around me: bodies strewn about the casino floor, dark crimson stains spreading like spilled wine.
"Everyone all right?" I yell over the din, my voice tight with concern. My men give terse nods and muttered affirmations. Two of the Russians are dead. One escaped. “Find him,” I command my men.
"Philippe," Gino calls out, panting. He's clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers. "I got shot."
"Dammit," I curse under my breath, my gaze lingering on Gino's injury. I can't help but feel responsible for this mess. "We'll get you patched up. Then you’re going to tell me every fucking thing, you hear me?”
Gino nods at me, trembling, while Marco stands by, surrounded by enough men to know he shouldn’t run.
Gino is patched up, and Marco answers our questions. Once we get the answers, I’m going to cut all ties with them and force them out of the country. They’ll never be able to return or help any of our competition.
As we assess the aftermath of the confrontation and seek answers for where the Bratva has established sales, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. I answer it, my heart sinking as I listen to the panicked voice on the other end.
"Philippe, it's one of our warehouses," the caller says. "The Bratva—they blew it up."
"Fuck!" My mind races, trying to process this new information and deciding how to respond. This is so much bigger than I anticipated—it's no longer just about Marco and Gino's mistake. The Russians are out for blood in turn for us killing their men, and they won't stop until they've seen us crushed beneath their boots.
As I hang up the phone, I look around at the destruction in my casino and the wounded faces of my men. This is war, and it's only just begun.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the war that now lies ahead, and whisper a silent prayer to the Moirai tattooed on my arm: guide me, protect me, and grant me the strength to see this through.
