I snatch it up, one eye still on the road.
Maksim:
Watching Pikachu with the fam, boss. Kid says you look like Meowth. Mean and scratchy.
I snort, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. I shake my head.
Part of me is surprised Maksim managed to get them settled without having to tie Clara to the fucking couch. That woman’s more feral than any street fighter I’ve dealt with. And here she is, apparently watching cartoons like this is some normal Sunday afternoon.
Most people—most sane people—do one or two things when they get kidnapped: They fucking cry, beg, or shit themselves.
And then there’s Clara Caldwell and her kid Elijah.
Sitting in my TV room, enjoying whatever hell they’re watching.
Chyert, she’s way too confident. The Caldwell family is rotting six feet under, yet here she is, acting like she owns the place.
Makes no fucking sense.
The Irish have held New Orleans in their grip since before I was born—old money, old blood, old grudges. But they’rebleeding cash faster than a gunshot wound these days. Their empire’s crumbling like a cheap cookie, and here’s Clara, starting a war she can’t afford.
What’s her fucking angle?
Even with generations of mob ties behind her, what makes her think she can take on the Bratva alone?
Unless she’s not alone.
Suddenly, something flickers in my rearview. Black Audi, three cars back.
Could be nothing.
Could be something. It’s been hanging back for a while now, maybe two or three turns. I check the mirror again. It’s subtle, but I know when someone’s trying to stay out of sight.
Could be Ludis being a pain in my ass again. My twin’s got a habit of showing up when I least want him to.
I take a right turn, cutting off a minivan. The Audi follows.
Interesting.
My convoy’s back at the compound, which means either I’m getting paranoid or someone’s got balls the size of Russia. Nobody fucks with thePakhanof the Kuznetsov Bratva. Nobodywith a functioning survival instinct, anyway.
The light ahead turns yellow. I gun it, shooting through just as it hits red. The Audi runs it completely, earning a symphony of horns.
DefinitelynotLudis. He’s an asshole, but he’s not sloppy. If Ludis wanted me tailed, I wouldn’t see it coming.
This is too obvious.
I catch a glimpse of the driver in my mirror. Single occupant, male. Nasty scar running from his left eye to his jaw like someone tried to fillet his face.
Who the fuck is this guy?
The traffic thins out.Perfect.
I downshift, the Brabus responding like it can read my mind. Time to see what our friend in the Audi is really after.
Two more rights, then a sharp left. The Audi stays with me, getting closer now. Amateur. You don’t get closer unless you’re ready to make your move.
My phone buzzes again.
