Once it’s dark, Andrei pulls the black, bulletproof SUV around. Ilya gets in the back while I take the passenger seat, studying the map on my phone as the rest of my men fall in behind us in three other similar vehicles and we drive past the armed men guarding the gated entrance. Despite what my phone is showing me, the city is divided into two sections: one owned by my Bratva and one owned by the Irish with a small neutral territory in the middle of downtown. We own the north. They own the south. I’ve been aware of Colin Fitzgerald for years, and when he came to me with a business proposition several months ago, I was more than ready to hear him out. Half of a bustling city for the taking was a temptation I couldn’t say no to. The Fitzgerald mafia is content with their half of the city, a simple truth that I can appreciate. Colin is smart, ambitious but knows when to quit, and he’s proven to be a man of his word. The only stipulation is that we stay on our side of the city and don’t interfere with Irish business. He knew if someone else moved into the city that they’d eventually try to take over the whole damn thing, but I gave my word that I’d stay on my side, and he knows me well enough to know I’ll stick to our deal.
“Take a right up here,” I tell Andrei, leading us toward the rich subdivisions that look picture-perfect but I’m guessing are anything but. The large, three-story houses pass by, illuminated by the street lamps that dot the road, but I’m not buying any of this Norman Rockwell shit.
Ilya gives a low whistle from the back. “Fuck, there’s a lot of money around here.”
“Yeah, and a lot of it is going to go straight into our pockets because the bored housewives buy pills off the street to get through their monotonous lives, and their husbands will be more than happy to relieve their stress at our strip clubs.” At the next stoplight, I tell Andrei to take a left, directing him to where Colin told me the main supplier lives. “It’s time to introduce ourselves.”
Andrei laughs, and I hear the unmistakable sound of Ilya checking his gun to make sure it’s ready to go. The split-level house on the corner is completely unassuming. There are even tulips planted in the damn flowerbeds. The neighborhood isn’t as nice as the one we just left, but it’s still a well-to-do area, and I’m guessing most of the people around here are completely oblivious to what’s happening in this house.
I look at my two men and say, “It’s a friendly conversation until he makes it something else.”
They both nod while Ilya texts my orders to everyone else. We park along the curb, all of us exiting at the same time and making our way to the front door with the cheery welcome sign hanging on it. When I knock on the door, I unbutton my suit jacket in case I need to reach for a weapon. The man who answers the door is younger than I’m expecting, early twenties with a small mohawk and a lip ring.
“What the fuck?” he mutters when he sees the large group of suited men on his porch. The tattoos make it obvious we aren’t cops, but that doesn’t mean we’re safe, and he knows it.
“Invite us in,” I tell him, raising a brow when he hesitates. “We’re going to attract attention. You sure you want to get your neighbors suspicious?”
He steps aside and hollers, “Nate, get in here!”
Nate runs in and then stops short when he sees us filling his living room. He’s shirtless, giving us a view of his puny chest and the start of what will one day be an impressive pot belly, if he lives that long. Shaggy brown hair falls in greasy strands around his face, and I can tell I don’t like him before I even meet his small, dark eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?” he says, slowly reaching a hand behind his back.
“I’d think very hard about that,” I warn him. “If you continue to move your hand, I’m going to take that as a threat, and I don’t respond well to threats.”
His hand freezes, making me think he might not be as stupid as I initially thought.
“My name is Vasily Medvedev, and my Bratva now runs this part of the city.” I give him a pointed look. “That means you work for me. I’m here to discuss the new rules and to let you know when I expect to be paid.”
“Paid?” He scratches his stomach and lets out a soft laugh. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but the operation in this part of the city is mine, and I don’t give a cut to anyone.”
The one with the mohawk watches us but doesn’t say anything. When my men start to fan out and have a look around, he makes no move to stop them, just steps aside and cuts a quick look to Nate who’s too busy trying to look tough to give him any help.
“That’s how things used to work,” I explain patiently. “But things change, Nate. Surely you know that.”
I look over when six of Nate’s men are led into the room, all of them looking as confused and wary as Nate and Mohawk. Ilya brings up the rear with a girl on either side of him. He gives me a grin and says in Russian, “They were in one of the bedrooms.”
One of the women struggles against his tight grip while the other looks up at him like she’s hoping he’ll never let her go.
“Get rid of them and tell them not to come back,” I tell him. He nods and walks them to the front door before opening it and shoving them out onto the porch.
“Get the fuck out and don’t come back.” His tone is enough to have them nodding their heads and scurrying away, even if the blonde does give him one last longing look before she runs to her car. He shuts the door and mutters, “She would’ve been a nice easy fuck.”
“I’m sure you’ll find another to take her place,” I tell him and then turn back to Nate, stepping closer so we’re only a couple of feet apart. I wish I hadn’t because the sour smell wafting off his body is enough to almost make me dry heave. Switching to English, I ask, “Ready to listen?”
His eyes dart to his men, and I see the wheels start to turn in his greasy head.
“Don’t,” I say, low enough so only he hears.
He ignores my warning and reaches behind his back, but before his fingers can even touch metal, my knife is in his neck. His eyes widen in shock and then pain. Mohawk mutters a “fuck” while the other men take a step back and watch their boss die. I slowly pull my knife out and Nate drops to his knees. Blood pours from the gash in a steady stream, staining his chest and forming a puddle in the cream carpet.
“That is going to be a real bitch to clean,” I say, using my foot to push Nate over. I recognize the look on his face all too well and know he only has seconds to live. Turning my attention away from him, I look at his men, not impressed with what I see. They’re young, low-level, and in way over their heads. I point to Mohawk.
“What’s your name?”
“Jason,” he says in a low voice. His eyes keep drifting over to Nate’s lifeless body.
“Congratulations, Jason. You’ve just been promoted. Do you share Nate’s opinion about our new arrangement?”
