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“Roses, huh? That’s quite insightful,” I praise her, trying to keep the conversation light and cheery. “Now, let’s say Belle had to cook for the Beast. What do you think she’d make him?”
Without missing a beat, Yulia exclaims, “Pizza!” Her face splits into a wide grin.
“Of course! Who doesn’t love pizza?” I giggle, glad to see her mood lifting. The tension that had weighed so heavily on the room starts to dissipate, replaced by the familiar and comforting ambiance of mealtime banter. “Well, Miss Future Pizza Chef,” I playfully tease, picking up an endearing star-shaped pizza from the counter, “how about we try some of your masterpieces? The Beast would be lucky to have a slice of this.”
Yulia sniggers as I offer her a piece, her small hands carefully taking the slice. I watch as she takes her first bite, a sense of satisfaction washing over me.
It’s an emotion that I quickly dash away as reality sets in once more.
You’re nothing but a fake nanny. Don’t get attached.
Chapter 27
Luka
“THE ANCHOR Bar,” I grunt as I take in the dimly lit corners of the room. Dimitri and Erik, my brothers-in-arms, flank me.
“Fuckin’ shithole,” Dimitri mutters under his breath, giving a bitter chuckle. He’s not wrong. This is not the Ritz. And yet, it’s got something else – a gritty charm, like a scarred street dog that’s seen too many fights.
It’s a grimy bar with peeling wallpaper, faded in places where countless men had leaned against it. Stale beer and something sharper, a hint of desperation maybe, linger in the air.
Outside, it’s worse. Hookers in cheap lipstick and torn fishnets lounge against the exterior, vying for the attention of stumbling drunks. The sign creaking overhead is a decrepit relic, the neon letters flickering inconsistently, a visual representation of its patrons’ wavering fortunes.
“So it is,” I agree, but it doesn’t matter to me. We are soldiers, not princes. This dive bar is our stronghold, not like those ostentatious palaces where other mob bosses flaunt their ill-gotten wealth.
Too flashy, too fucking inviting for a hit.
But this bar is more than meets the eye. Behind a hidden door, a concealed room exists, sheltered from the outside chaos. A sanctuary for our kind of “business” talks.
With a nod from me, Grisha, our man, leads us through the deceptive camouflage of the dingy bar into the heart of our den. The door is a nondescript piece of the wall, as inconspicuous as a rat in the gutter. Stepping into the room feels like crossing into a different realm – it’s cleaner, safer, sacred even.
The air’s thicker here, heavy with memories and whispers of past strategies, past victories. “This place,” I find myself murmuring as we settle into our positions around the worn table, “carries the ghost of my father.”
The smoky scent of his favorite cigars, the worn-out grooves in the armrest of his chair – all bear silent testament to my father’s reign.
A once fearless leader, his spirit a goddamn phantom at our council. He ran this covert shit from within these walls – a king among rats, his command unchallenged, his power absolute.
Erik interrupts my silent contemplation, sliding a crumpled manila envelope across the table. “Aleks,” he hisses, spitting the name like it’s poison.
“Pizda,” Dimitri sneers, the disgust heavy in his voice. Aleks has been a pain in our ass for far too long, his desire for power as pathetic as it is dangerous.
I read through the documents, realization dawning with each passing line. “The bastard’s buying off our suppliers,” I grumble. This move is typical Aleks – sneaky and underhanded. “He’s aiming for our roots,” I snarl.
The memory of Yulia left with pizza half-eaten, her excitement replaced with confusion, adds fuel to my fury. This son of a bitch isn’t just threatening our business; he’s fucking with my family, my home.
Dimitri’s fists clench on the tabletop. “Let’s just ice him,” he growls, always the direct one.
Erik, however, shakes his head. “We’ve got to play it smart,” he insists, voicing my own thoughts. “We need to protect our ground. Aleks has been building his army,” he says, his gaze unwavering, locked onto mine. “The fucker’s been recruiting from all corners of the world. It’s not just about the drugs, women, and smuggling anymore, Luka. It’s about manpower and territories. It’s about control.”
“Recruiting globally now, isn’t he?” I remark, leaning back in my seat, a grim smile tugging at my lips. The diversification of Aleks’s crew is more a sign of his desperation than power.
“Not just Russians. Japanese, Korean, Americans…” Dimitri lists, a bitter chuckle escaping him. “He’s building a fucking United Nations.”
“And gaining ground,” Erik adds, his voice laced with concern. “More territories mean more resources.”
“More men, more problems,” I correct, my gaze steely. “We’ve survived worse. We’ll weather this storm too,” I state, resolute. “We protect our own. We protect our ground.”
