Chapter 27 Petyr
PETYR
I don’t like leaving her alone. Not after last night. The image of her pale and trembling on the bathroom floor is carved into me.
But business doesn’t wait, and this deal with Misha has been weeks in the making. If I want to push the Danilos out, I need every advantage I can get.
Before I leave the house, I call Luka into the hall. “You and two men stay here. No one gets near her without my say.”
He gives a sharp nod. “Consider it done, boss.”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll be at the club. Keep me updated.”
Only then do I head out.
Even in the car, I keep checking my phone, half-expecting Luka to call. I’m hoping for nothing but silence. No news means she’s safe.
When I get to the club, Misha is already there.
He lifts his chin just enough to acknowledge me. No wasted movements or empty words. It’s what I like about him. He doesn’t play games. After the stunt Sidorov pulled, I’d rather do business with men like Misha Lykov. He’s true to his word. That’s worth more than gold these days.
I sit across from him. A bottle of Macallan 25 waits on the table between us, glasses already poured. He pushes one toward me.
The burn goes down easy, the kind of drink that settles in the gut and keeps you sharp.
“Shipments first,” he says. “I have two crates to move through the docks by Friday.”
I nod once. “The routes will be clear. My people will handle the port authority.”
“Good.” He takes a drink, sets the glass down. “Your twenty percent will be delivered once my goods reach their new homes. Not a moment sooner.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I take another swig of my drink. Misha’s business benefits my Bratva immensely, both by reputation and cash flow.
But lately, I’ve been thinking of what happens if I’m betrayed. This money—I’m the one who put it on the table. I brokered the deal. None of my vory will reap the benefits. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem.
Too bad these aren’t ordinary times.
“One more thing.”
Misha lifts his brow. “Let’s hear it.”
“You deal with me and only me.”
Slowly, Misha’s lips curl into a smirk. “Does this have anything to do with what I’ve been hearing about the Sidorov brothers?”
“I don’t care for rumors.”
“Too bad. Because word on the street is, they got into bed with the wrong side and took a swan dive for it. I take it they were chattier than you liked.” His smirk turns wolfish. “Guess that’s why you want me all to yourself.”
“Take it however you want.” I tip my glass towards him. “I deal with you, you deal with me. No loose ends.”
After a moment’s pause, he does the same. Our glasses clink together.
“And if you’re swiped off the board, the traitors don’t get my money.” He nods appreciatively as he drinks. “Smart.”
“Necessary.”
“Either way, that’s fine by me. I never cared much for your entourage. You’re the man I’m in business with. Everybody else, I don’t know and I don’t trust.”
Good. I’ll have Ivan spread the word among the vory. Our newest cash cow is happy to play ball—so long as I’m the one on the other side throwing it.
From now on, killing me means killing the most profitable branch of our business. If this isn’t enough to make cowards like the Sidorovs think twice moving forward, then I’ll just have to pump them full of lead. Like I did to Boris’s idiot brothers.
We move on to the details. Future shipments, people to cut out of the business. Lykov is a real wolf, and he’s got no mercy for anyone moving in on his territory. Another thing I can respect.
The conversation is sharp and efficient, but every pause reminds me I’m sitting here while Sima is home alone.
After our latest scare, I hate having her out of my sight. I need eyes on her—my eyes. My hands, to catch her if she falls.
By the time all the kinks are ironed out, I know our deal is secure. It may not be paper and ink, but my partner’s word and mine will be enough. With Misha, that’s all I need.
Luckily, it’s Misha who rises first. “I’m afraid I have to cut this short. I’ve got someone to meet later.”
Relief stirs in me. I nod once and shake his hand. “Go. I’ll be in touch.”
“So will I.” His grip is firm. “And if I don’t hear from you—”
“You’ll hear from me.” I let myself smirk. “Don’t go knocking on the competition’s door just yet.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, brother.”
We walk out of the club together. The cool night air feels heavy, thick with tension I can’t quite name. I start to say, “I’ll see you nex—”
Then it happens.
The quiet splits apart. The rapid crackle of gunfire rips across the lot. My instincts snap into place before my head even catches up.
“Down!” I bark.
I grab Misha by the collar and drag him down hard behind his car. We hit the pavement. He grunts and clutches his arm.
Blood seeps through his jacket. I twist my head around and see it: the bullet caught him in the chest. He’s hurt, badly.
Fuck.
The gunfire continues. Bullets rip into the side of my car, tear through the panels.
The driver in Misha’s car jerks, blood spraying across the windshield before his body slumps sideways. Another man gone in seconds.
“Blyat’,” Misha snarls. He drags his own weapon from under his jacket. Wounded or not, he’s furious right now.
My right hand is on my gun, too, but the left one grabs his.
Misha glowers at me, but I don’t back down. I’m not letting my newest business partner bite the dust because he’s too pissed to realize he’s out of commission.
“Stay down,” I snap.
Misha doesn’t look too happy with my command. But when he tries to move, his face twists into a grimace. His wound must be worse than he thought.
Good. That means he won’t put himself at risk. I’m not losing the biggest paycheck of the year because Lykov was too hot-headed to realize his aim was busted.
I leave him where he is, roll behind the wheel well, and fire back toward the muzzle flashes in the dark.
I pop up, fire twice, and drop the first shooter even as a bullet skims across my own shoulder.
Pain rips through me, hot and sharp, but I push it aside. I adjust, aim again, and put the second bastard on the ground.
“Mikhael!” I roar toward the club. “Get out here, now! Bring men!”
The back door slams open. Footsteps pound across the concrete as backup rushes in. My men scatter into position, weapons drawn, eyes sharp.
I move forward, gun still raised, and scan the perimeter.
Two bodies lie sprawled near the White Russian’s entrance, weapons still in their hands. The smell of gunpowder hangs heavy in the air.
I kick one rifle away, then roll the first man over with my boot.
Dead. No question.
The second is younger. His eyes are open, glassy, but I recognize the face. My stomach knots as the light from the security lamp cuts across his features.
Feliks Danilo.
Sima’s middle brother.