“They think we want war,” he muttered.
The man beside him—older, scarred, Armenian to the bone—snorted. “War? We didn’t want war. We wanted power. Money. Control. Did we enjoy fucking with the Russians from time to time? Of course. But we were sick of Boris’s bullshit. We wanted him to stop lying—making promises he wasn’t keeping.”
Boris had promised the Armenians a cut of some big arms deal he was brokering in exchange for allowing the Bratva to use one of their storage facilities. Then he started backpedaling and trying to renegotiate after the Armenians had upheld their end of the bargain.
“Well, he didn’t,” Arman said with a shrug. “So he got shot.”
Not dead. That had been deliberate because had they wanted him dead, it would’ve happened.
It was a message, not an execution.
Boris Volkov talked too much. Promised too much. Lied to both sides and thought charm would keep him safe. The Armenians had been content running their territory, moving product quietly, staying out of Bratva politics.
Until Boris started whispering names, trying to turn people against each other, and getting caught in all his lies.
Arman found out Boris had started feeding the Bratva stories about Armenians fucking with their women, their money, their loyalty. Started stirring shit that didn’t need stirring. Especially considering they had been in what could be called an unspoken truce of some sort.
“It looks like he wanted Maksim angry,” Arman said softly. “Pointed at us. Why?”
The older man grunted. “We didn’t touch the girl.”
“No,” Arman agreed. “That was never us.”
Because the girl wasn’t leverage to the Armenians.
She was leverage to Boris.
“So why are we watching her then?” the older man asked.
“Because we’re being paid to,” Arman replied with a grin before it quickly faded. “And because I’m sick of Boris and I want to know what he is up to with this. What is his endgame?”
The older man grunted in reply.
Arman flicked his cigarette butt off into the snow and blew the last of the smoke to the sky. “Let’s go. We have work to do.”
The two men left.
Once across the city, Arman lifted his binoculars and focused on the safe house window.
She stood inside, wrapped in a sweater far too big for her, her hand resting unconsciously on her stomach.
Pregnant.
That had been unexpected—but useful, he supposed.
He held a phone to his ear and waited for it to be answered. After several rings, he was about to terminate the call.
“Yes?” the voice on the other end of the line snapped.
Arman explained what had happened.
“She wasn’t supposed to move,” Boris snapped when Arman reported the relocation. “He wasn’t supposed to protect her.”
Boris sounded annoyed, cursing in Russian. Not surprising.
That was the first red flag.
Boris Volkov didn’t panic or get irrational. He plotted and planned.
