Chapter 1 - Iosif
I pull into the lot behind tonight’s decrepit warehouse. My car blends right in with a handful of other vehicles. The make and models don’t matter as much as their belonging to people who know better than to ask questions. There is a reason the operation humming beneath the building doesn’t advertise. Wherever word spreads about the Pit, it is all word of mouth—and whispered in backrooms, at that.
Most importantly, it’s exactly what I fucking need tonight.
I’ve earned it.
Not only do I have my eyes on Viktor Zakharov day in and day out, but I also can’t ever let him know I’m watching him. Gathering evidence in the shadows. If word gets back to him that a Yuri is building a case against him, who the fuck knows how he’ll react. He’s as unstable a variable as it gets.
All I’ve got for decompression is dingy, seedy places like this.
It’s been three months of this. Three months of gathering intel. Threemonthsof absolutely no pussy, because I can’t afford the distraction. Can’t risk crossing paths with some mole when I’m anything but impervious to a fiery woman’s initiative.
Trifon was clear about it at dinner last week. “We can’t afford mistakes,bratishka,” he’d said. “I’m trusting you. If Viktor’s still at it, we need to have iron-clad evidence. We need to present it to Anton in a way that doesn’t look like a power grab.”
He’s living happily ever after with his warm wife with her heart of gold. Valentin went and fell head over heels forthe woman he was surveilling. Leonid’s still recovering from the Zakharovs’ wrath. I can’t begrudge any of them.
But it does mean the onus falls to me, by proxy, much to Trifon’s chagrin. I’m Iosif, the reckless one. Thewildone. The one my brothers worry about most—besides Nadya, baby of the family that she is, though I think she can handle herself just fine.
Let’s just say it’s been a long, long three months.
Tugging on my jacket, I kill the engine and head toward the entrance. My boots thud across the concrete all the way past the bouncers, guarding the maroon vaulted doors like sentinels. They don’t stop me.
We Yuris are nothing if not distinctive.
The outside is always eerily quiet. No loitering allowed. It’s only once the doors open that the chaos spills out. It assaults my senses in an avalanche of liquor, music, and the unique but various sounds of sharp objects being launched left, right, and center. There’s nothing pretty about this place. But it’s got what I need.
“Oy, Yuri!” someone hollers from across the space. “Long time, no see!”
This place is busier tonight than usual. I raise my hand in greeting and dismissal at the same time, then keep moving.
I’m not in the mood for chit-chat.
It’s typically an added benefit, the fuckers that usually frequent this place. It’s a great hotspot for gathering intel in a pinch. The trappings aren’t glamorous, but the drinks are always strong. Loose lips sink ships. Unfortunately, my attention is reserved for a particular ship these days—and I already know for a fact that it isn’t docked at this port tonight.
The Zakharov situation has been eating at me for months. I need a break from Viktor’s shit, however brief. To turn my brain the fuck off. And it can’t be with a woman. I can’t afford to lose my head. Trifon’s made it clear how much is riding on this, as both my big brother and the Pakhan of the Yuri bratva.
I wade through the throngs of people to the throwing stations and reach for a different vice. I pluck a weapon from the wall—a glorious hunting knife, with a glistening blade and a handle with intricate handiwork. Something tells me it’s stolen, and I really don’t care. The weight of it feels right in my palm. I toss it from one hand to the other, twirling it between my fingers. Learning and absorbing its mass.
Once I begin to throw, the world narrows down to the distance between the knife and the target. I launch it forward, and it whistles through the air. Plunges into the target, dead center. I retrieve it, then go again. And again. Primal, uncomplicated satisfaction thrums beneath my skin.
I could be fifteen years old again, just dicking around with my siblings. That was back in simpler times, when this was just for fun. Before I could imagine a man’s throat being what I plunged my blades into.
“Iosif, you’re making the rest of us look like we’re standing with our dicks in our hands,” a man crows behind me.
I recognize Mick’s voice. He’s just a dealer with too much self-importance and not enough common sense.
From the slur in his syllables, I’d say he’s a few drinks in.
I don’t bother turning around. We’re not on the same level. We’re not even in the same building. Yuris may not be a monolith in Boston, but my grandfather built a fucking empire. My father maintained it. My brothers and I are making sure itsurvives whatever comes next. What the fuck canMickoffer for that?
It’s a better use of my time to keep throwing my knife. Watch the blade embed itself in the target dummy with a gratifying thunk.
I don’t get to relish it for long.
In my periphery, the ambient clamor has changed its essence. What was white-noise chattering has become commotion. The drunken laughter has teeth now. It isn’t my business. I’m only here to work out the restlessness. I’ve got enough on my fucking plate.
Yet my ears are perked, and I can’t deny it. Call it an occupational hazard. Curiosity has always been a weakness of mine. Despite my siblings’ ribbing, I haven’t been cured of it yet. Besides, something isn’t right. I could swear I hear a—what, a child sobbing? Who the fuck would bring achildto this place?
