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"I have what they may find to be a…marketable skill,” I say, my voice trembling.
She blows out a breath, and relief floods me when she smiles. "Of course you do. What do you know about The Cove?"
I shake my head. “Honestly, not much.” I want to hear what she has to say.
Tatiana’s family is Russian, so she’s a lot more familiar with it than I am.
“So it's this neighborhood known for having a lot of Russian influence. The shopkeepers speak Russian. There are restaurants, grocery stores, cultural centers. An Orthodox Church. There's like a beach, and a boardwalk. It's really popular in the summer, because people sunbathe and swim, and take walks. In the winter it's less crowded because of the drop in tourists. But that's when the Romanovs come. That's when they set up shop, or whatever the fuck they do. I don't know. They own everything. Literally everything. The restaurants, hotels, venues. But they also have apartment buildings and single-family homes, you know, residences. They own those, too."
“Wow. Okay.”
I can do this. What do I have to lose? I’ve already lost almost everything. Almost.
She bites her lip thoughtfully. “This just might work.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mikhail
“My condolences, Mikhail.”
I stand a full foot taller than the old man in front of me, but despite Fyodor Volkov’s smaller stature, no one ever mistook him for being weak.
Volkov reaches to pour me a shot of vodka, but I shake my head.
“So soon you forsake tradition, son?”
“Call me son again and I’ll remind you who I am.”
Volkov’s bodyguards come to attention at the challenge in the air, but I don’t fucking care. “Don’t try me,” I tell them. “This conversation is between yourpakhanandme. If any of you dare to defile my father’s memory, you’ll wish you were buried with him.”
Other than staff, a few of my guards and Volkov’s men are the only ones present for this impromptu meeting in one of my restaurants. I chose this one for the security of its location – thebeachfront at my back and only one access point. The secluded room is located deep within the walls of the building.
Though from the outside it appears to be an ordinary restaurant serving Russian cuisine, it’s only a front. The atmosphere is thick with the rich aroma of Russian foods, the walls decorated with paintings of Russian landscapes and art, all underscored by the threat of unspoken violence. If these walls could talk…
A muscle twitches beneath the old man’s eye, but before he can respond, I lean in closer. “Some men respect the elderly, cousin. Don’t make the mistake of assuming I’m one of them.”
“If you think?—”
“I don’tthink,” I snap.
One of his men starts. I know for a fact the last man that interrupted Fyodor Volkov lost his tongue. My fingers itch for his guards to come at me, but they don’t.
Volkov holds a hand up, a silent gesture to hold them at bay. I’m done with the formalities.
“I know why you’re here, old man. I’d like to remind you that by law we’re in our days of mourning. If any of your number breaks that law, retribution will be swift and merciless. The only reason I’ve given you permission to be in my presence before now was out of respect for my father.” I reach forward and adjust Volkov’s lapel. “Is. That.Clear?”
We have ten days left and he knows it.
Muscles twitch in the old man’s jaw, his watery eyes narrowed. He pulls away from my grip on his collar with effort. Though his men outnumber mine, the sheer strength of my cavalcade wouldoverpower them, at least in this moment. My father trained us to be dynamite in human form, veritable panthers.
Volkov would be wise to hire more muscle.
“Ten days left,” he says, before playing his final card. “But you know our traditions.”
I need no reminder.
I wear the knowledge of my duty like a noose around my neck, tightening with each day that passes. The dissolution of my first arranged marriage agreement on the heels of my father’s death was no accident. Volkov is notorious for hitting hard when a man is down, for striking the Achilles heel with no mercy.
