He stares at me, nostrils flaring. The Albanian across the room, makes a sound like a cough and a whimper.
My father looks over at the men behind me. “You hired men to turn against your own Pakhan and the Bratva. You’re a fucking coward, Roman.”
“Of course you’d think that.” I shake my head. “They’re not like your Chechen mercenaries. In fact, I think you might know some of them. Maybe all of them.”
I turn for a split second to see masks coming off. I snap my head around at the sound of my father’s gasp, curses flying from his mouth. “Fucking traitors. All of you.”
"I thought we came here to kill him,” Misha mutters. “Boss, can’t we do it now?” he asks, holding out a hand to me.
I shake my head, eyes trained on my father. He’s quieter now, realizing rage won’t help him. “Boss, huh? You entitled bastard. That’s what you’ve been after all this time. How long have you been planning this?”
“Wanted you dead? Years. Planning this? Months. You’re aparasite on Volchya. Favoring outsiders over your own men. You made my decision too easy.”
“I built this,” he snarls. “Everything. Me. I led this Bratva for twenty years. I built this from nothing.”
“Shut the fuck up. You inherited this and now I’m taking it.”
I look him up and down, maintaining my control. "I’m not going to lie. You made some good decisions, once. I'll give you that. You expanded the operations, made connections in the right places, but that was a long time ago."
"Don't you fucking lecture me."
“You’re right, I won’t.” I knock the Makarov from his hand. It skids, landing in a corner far out of his reach.
“Zip-tie him.”
Misha jumps at the chance, grabbing my father out of his chair and hauling him forward.
"Get your hands off me.”
Misha ignores him, snapping the zip-tie around his wrists, tight and snug.
"If you're going to kill me, then kill me."
"You die when I say you die,” I bite out, before turning to Lev. “Take him to the warehouse in Khimki. Make sure he stays conscious, waiting for me.”
They grab his arms, dragging him toward the door, his screams echoing down the hallway. I grit my teeth, block it out and turn my attention to the Albanian, who’s been waiting quiet as a mouse all this time, hoping I’d forget about him.
His face is pale with sweat glistening on his forehead. He swipes it away then gazes frantically between me, the door and the body on the floor.
I walk over to him. “Who do you work for?"
"I uh… I work for different businesses. Represent them.”
I let out a sigh. This fool wants to play games with me. “A name,” I order. “Give me a fucking name.”
He’s shaking. “I don’t. I really don’t know. I just work for the business.”
I hear some groans in the background. Thebratkiwants blood. So do I. After I get confirmation that Nala was right on the money with the Albanian leader. Then I’ll send my message.
“I'm going to ask one last time. I’ll even help you out. Does it start with an L?”
He flinches. The reaction is so faint, but I catch it before he tries to mask it. Too late. I reach for the knife in my boot.
“No,” he whispers, his back hitting the wall. “Please, no. It’s Luan. I work for Luan. I’m just a messenger. I don’t know anything.”
I hold up my knife. “That’s okay. You’re going to help me send him a message."
He sighs, his body slumping with relief, despite his eyes on the knife. “Yes. Anything you want. I’ll tell him whatever you want me to say.”
