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CHAPTER ONE - TWO YEARS AND THREE MONTHS EARLIER
Lachlan
“Youcannotgointhere!” A low-level Russianbratokjumps in front of me and pushes on my chest. His eyes widen, figuring out I’m a wall of pure muscle, tattoos, and a boatload of scars.
Stepping onto Alexei Koslov’s estate, I give this piece of shite the benefit of home court respect for exactly two seconds. “Touch me again, and you’ll end up in Astoria Harbor tied to a block of cement.”
“Dima, stand down.” Sergei, the one Bratva security boss who maintains a modicum of my respect, strolls down the grassy knoll.
“He just walk right past mine,” Dima whines in his broken English.
“Go back to booth and keep the damn gate closed,” Sergei snaps.
“I’d just climb the gate if it was closed,” I sneer for effect.
With Dima gone, Sergei shoves his veiny tattooed hands, just like mine, into his trouser pockets. The move stretches open his suit jacket, exposing the heat on his waist. That impressive 19mm Parabellum military import is most likely untraceable. “What do you want, Lachlan?”
“Maksim. Get him, or I keep walking, and you’ll have to shoot me.” Which I know he won’t.
There’s a code among the Irish Mob, the Bratva, and the Italian Mafia. You can’t kill high-level bosses without a meeting. And since no leader would ever give permission for one of their senior commanders to be murdered, as my brother’s enforcer, I’m pretty much untouchable.
And I’m rumored to be insane. I love testing these motherfuckers, forcing them to guess how far I’ll go. My wrecked cheek from a knife attack not only adds to my menacing appearance, it jacks up the fear in lesser men.
Sergei rubs his forehead. And with exhaustion in his deep voice, he mutters in his thick Russian accent, “What did Maksim do now?”
I don’t envy anyone who serves under the Russin Enforcer. He owns more real estate in crazy town than me. I have discipline. Maksim doesn’t.
“I just came from the hospital. Liam Reilly is in intensive care with a drug overdose.”
“And that has to do with Maksim, how?” Sergei shakes his head, unimpressed with the mention of Jack Reilly’s son, and that disappoints me.
These Bratva brothers aren’t doing their homework like they used to. Jack Reilly is one of our most staunchest andruthlessallies.
“It was laced with that shite Maksim is having cooked up somewhere. I saw the tox report. It’s the same formula the ME noted in an autopsy for that dead couple fished out of the East River a month ago. It’s fucking deadly.”
“How did you see an ME report?” Sergei dips a bushy eyebrow at me. “And how did you get that kid’s tox records?”
I tilt my head, feeling sorry for the bastard. “Do you really need to ask me that?”
“Balor?”
“Aye. His hacking skills are getting better every day. Not worse.”
“That is a crime.”
I grab Sergei by the shirt collar. “I like you. I respect you. Get Maksim here, or I’ll act like I don’t.”
“I get you. But not here, not now.” He shoves me off and glances over his shoulder at the crowd milling around on the pakhan’s compound—a palatial estate with tall white columns and manicured gardens. “It’s Anastasia’s birthday. Koslov will kill anyone who disturbs her party.”
In the distance, tables with flickering candles and centerpieces made up of mini bonsai trees and white lights sit under a party tent. Golden numbered balloons tied to the entrance billow in the wind.
The Bratva princess is twenty-one. Ripe for a marriage deal.
“Get your pound of flesh from Maksim tomorrow.” Sergei gives me a once-over. “Did you come here alone?”
I bark a laugh. “That’s how good my men are. You’re surrounded, and you don’t even know it.”
Sergei exhales. “Do it for Stasia, okay? It is her birthday. The girl did not do anything.”
