Forbidden Mafia Obsession

Vadim

I slam the son of a bitch into the wall with full force, the loud crack of his skull reverberating through the dark, silent alley.

Stupid prick.

Who runs into a dead-end alleyway when they're being chased? Lev Farkas, that's who. Same asshole who, for the past two months, has been feeding my family's oldest enemy, the Baranovs, insider information about our family's casino operations.

He shakes his head, mutters something not in English under his breath, then makes a wobbly start toward me.

I'm a man who likes a challenge, but he's making this way too easy for me. I've barely broken a sweat. It's almost unfair. I charge straight at him, easily dodging his feeble attempt at a punch and crack him twice across the jaw.

"Need you to deliver a message to the Russians for me."

He drags the back of his hand across his cheek, wincing. "Go fuck yourself," he spits out, his accent thick, unmistakably Eastern European.

His teeth are crooked little yellow squares, and I bet his breath reeks of vodka and cigarettes.

I drive two hard punches into his ribs, sending him crashing to the ground.

He whimpers like the pathetic little weasel he is.

Before he can even think about getting back on his feet, he's staring down the barrel of my SIG.

"You're disposable to them, you know that?"

As the Director of Security for my family's flagship casino, I haven't established what exactly his connection to the Russians is, but as far as I'm aware, he's not a blood relation. And when it comes to a family like the Baranovs, if you're not related, there's even less loyalty than if you are.

Farkas spits out the side of his mouth. Blood trickles from the corner of his lip to his chin. He tilts his head up. "And your family’s filthy with it."

I lower the gun.

That may very well be true. No one makes it to the top in the gaming world without getting their hands dirty, and the Piotrowskis, we're no exception.

I wouldn't claim otherwise. But my family's hand was forced, starting when the Baranovs ran my grandfather out of Vegas, unleashing a decades-long war between the Russians and us.

We may have been the underdogs for a long time, but you can't keep a good Pole down, and now that we run Reno, it eats the Baranovs alive.

They'll stop at nothing to take us down.

But that's never going to happen. Especially when they send low-level pawns like this guy to do their dirty work for them.

He's probably being blackmailed or used himself.

Not that I feel a shred of sympathy for him.

"I know you've been feeding them information…" Nothing too important, but enough to register on my radar. Cash movements. VIP guest lists. Staffing patterns. Security changes. "So you can let them know we're onto them, and whatever they're planning isn't going to work."

He sneers at me, and I aim my gun right between his eyes. They narrow a fraction, but beyond that, no reaction. Either he doesn't know what I'm capable of or he's even stupider than I initially thought.

"Fine," he grumbles. "I'll tell them."

I keep the gun steady even though I've already decided I'm not going to kill him tonight. He still serves a purpose.

For me.

For the Baranovs? Who cares, but that's not my problem.

I stare him down for a solid ten seconds then slide the pistol into its holster and button my jacket closed. "We're done here."

I turn and walk away, my footsteps echoing off the walls. When I reach the main road, I turn to see Farkas getting up, dusting himself off. I'm left feeling…unsatisfied. It was a limp chase followed by a weak fight.

All buildup and no release. Never a good combo.

Out on the street, the air buzzes with music, smoke, and Friday-night noise. Music drifts from open casino doors, and streaks of red and blue color the sidewalk. People brush past me, talking, laughing, heading out for a good time. Normal people living normal lives.

Can't say I relate.

I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets even though the air is warm. The restlessness gnawing away inside me prevents me from heading home to my empty apartment. Instead, I slip into the first bar I come across that doesn't look too busy.

The Butterfly Lounge.