Stepan
The streets of Perm glisten with early summer rain that soaks into my hair and chills me.
Water streams along the uneven street, turning every surface into a mirror that reflects the light overhead.
I stand in the shadow of a building across the street from where team one works at Roman's order, here to ensure they're doing their job well.
The team moves quickly and quietly as they've been trained. Three of Roman’s most trusted soldiers position themselves in a loose protective arc around the black SUV parked at the curb.
The others move the product into the white van quickly, but not as quietly as they should.
The buyers' hands hover too close to the bulges beneath their jackets for my liking.
No exchange is ever without tension, but tonight it seems to crackle through the air. Maybe why Ro wanted me to keep an eye on this meeting.
With so much riding on the expansion of Radin operations, my cousin isn't wrong to send reinforcements to keep an eye on our new teams. Usually, they handle themselves, but I can sense these buyers are a bit rougher than most, maybe likely to start shit.
Even the way they grunt unappreciatively and mumble in a foreign language makes red flags wave.
The scarred man steps forward and flips open the lid of the nearest crate.
He pulls out one of the rifles and grumbles in disgust. “These are the same old pieces of shit you brought last time,” he snarls.
His accent is so thick, I can barely understand him.
“I specifically asked for the newer models—ones with the updated polymer furniture and better optics rails. These look like they’ve been sitting in a warehouse since the nineties. ”
“This is what Roman sent. The quality is the same as always. Take it or leave it.” Angus nods at the crate and crosses his arms over his chest. He's not running this interchange, but he's right to step in and attempt to control the situation.
The buyer slams the lid shut then turns on Angus with a scowl. “And you expect us to pay the same price?” he sneers, and his tone makes it clear he has other plans. “Ten percent off or the deal dies right here on this fucking street.”
Ten percent on a shipment this size isn't pocket change.
We're not giving up that much of the profit over one man's snippy opinion.
I straighten and rest my hand on my weapon shoved into my waistband as Angus's shoulders square and his chest puffs out.
He's preparing himself mentally for a fight he knows may happen, and I want to step in and make sure it doesn't. We can't afford noise around our trades right now.
I push off the wall and step out into the rain, striding across the street quietly.
The moment I enter the circle of light, the buyers turn to face me and they all stand a bit taller.
They know exactly who I am. The Kuzins may be new to this game, but we're not new to this city.
Aligning with the Radin organization brought strength they didn't have.
Just the looks on these bozos' faces proves it.
“Problem?” I ask, making it obvious my hand rests on my weapon. With as much anger and adrenaline as I've had pumping through my veins lately, I'm chomping at the bit for a good showdown.
The scarred man sizes me up from head to toe, eyes narrowing into slits. “Your boys are trying to rob us blind. These rifles are old stock. I want a discount, or we walk.”
"We made this deal weeks ago and we don't negotiate on the street. You take the deal we're offering or you walk with no weapons." My fingers itch to draw my weapon, but keeping this calm is a smarter go.
The man grins, revealing stained, crooked teeth, and says, “That's big talk from a pretty boy... Probably never got your hands dirty a day in your life. Go run along and let the big kids play."
His insult comes complete with a hand gesture, waving me off, but I don't intimidate easily. I thumb off the safety of my Makarov and pull it from my waistband, pointing it in his general direction. It makes every one of them reach for their weapons, my guys too.
“Careful,” I say softly. “Pretty boys still know how to paint walls red when necessary.”
If the tension was crackling before, it's arcing now, causing men to pull their guns and brace for trouble. Most of them take a cautious step backward, but the wiry rat with prison tattoos on his neck spits on the pavement and steps forward stupidly.
“We came here to do business, not get fucked over by some suit who hides behind Roman Kuzin’s name.”
"I said, careful." My statement doesn’t have any effect on him.
He continues moving forward, coming at me with his bare hands, and I won't take the first shot.
When he swings at me, I see it coming from a mile away.
His chest is too tight, giving away too much.
He's not a fighter. I'm easily able to sidestep it, then drive my own right jab right into his chest.
The impact produces a satisfying gag as air belches from his lungs.
His eyes bulge wide with shock and before he can recover, I land two sharp, precise punches to his liver—short hooks that fold him over like a cheap knife.
When my knee drives upward into his nose, the snapping of cartilage is a satisfying sound.
He collapses onto the cobblestones, coughing and spitting blood, and I crouch beside his writhing form and grip a fistful of his wet hair.
I yank his head back so he's forced to look directly into my eyes.
Rain drips from my hair onto his face while the others all start posturing, guns now fully on aim.
“Listen carefully,” I snarl. “I'm not in the mood for negotiating. This is Roman Kuzin's city now, and we don't make deals with fuckers who try to short-change us." I jerk hard, making him wince. "Do you understand?"
He nods frantically, blood streaming from his shattered nose and mixing with tears of pain. “Da… da, ponimayu,” he rasps.
I release his hair and stand up straight, wiping my hands on the front of my coat as I jam the weapon back into my waistband, and suddenly, the others don't look so eager to resist.
"Now, can we get back to work?" I look to Angus, who is the first to lower his weapon. Slowly, the others put theirs away and they start moving more weapons.
The scarred buyer walks over to help the wiry one off the ground, and as I stand over them watching the rest of the deal go down peacefully, it starts to dawn on me how easily this could all be Maksim Orlov's exchange. A dark night, a dozen testosterone-fueled idiots, and no one would be the wiser.
My wheels are spinning hard. Marina is resisting me too strongly.
She doesn’t see how much I want her with me, and I can't come out and tell her who I am or risk her running for her life.
To her I'm the enemy, the one her father is scared of.
She will never see me as a savior until she sees what it means for her family.
And she'll never even look that way until she has no other place to turn.
It's become obvious to me that killing Orlov is the only way to end this alliance.
Because letting Marina be hurt by any of this isn't an option. Roman may not like it. In fact, I know he’ll hate it. But it's the way it has to be.
Orlov's blood must be shed. And I must have that woman.