Chapter Seventeen
Igor
The room falls silent following Sergei’s report.
Nobody picks up the untouched bottle of whiskey on the table. Nobody says anything. The only sound in the room is the soft whir of the air conditioner above and the steady tapping of my fingers on my desk.
Three days.
Three fucking days.
That’s how long Joaquin has been dead, and aside from the rushed funeral yesterday, which I wasn’t invited to, Emiliano hasn’t done a damn thing.
Normally, it would be a good thing that Emiliano hasn’t made a move against me and the bratva, but men like Emiliano don’t just disappear after inheriting a cartel from the predecessor they’ve killed.
The fuckheads usually party hard with their new power, while the smart ones kill all those who are faithful to the dead boss, wage wars against old allies, make new alliances, and make sure everyone knows who’s in charge now.
But not Emiliano.
Aside from his boys loitering around my properties thinking they’re invisible, there hasn’t been any news or actions from his end. No one has even caught a glimpse of him, so it’s hard to tell what the fucker is planning.
That’s what makes him dangerous.
Sergei closes the file in front of him. “I had the boys search all six locations this morning. There was no trace of the Mexicans lingering outside or keeping tabs on us. There hasn’t been a single one of them watching us since last night.”
Ruslan relaxes in his chair, putting an ankle across his knee. “Maybe he realized fighting the bratva wasn’t good for business.”
I shake my head. “No.”
He lifts his shoulder. “You think there’s something more?”
I don’t think. I fucking know it. If Emiliano went as far as killing Joaquin, it wouldn’t be just for the title of head of the cartel. He was second-in-command, so he would’ve taken over at some point after Joaquin grew too old.
There’s something more, and it feels like it has to do with the bratva.
Ruslan raises an eyebrow, but remains silent.
I stand up and head over to the huge map that hangs on the wall at the front of the room. There’s a black pin for every single bratva enterprise a red pin for every Mexican one we know about.
In the past twelve months, the map has become too crowded, with new businesses opening in different districts here in Miami and America as a whole. The Mexicans have had a few expansions as well.
I stare at it for several long minutes before speaking. “Joaquin’s death was one thing. Unless he’s stupid, Serrano knows the bratva isn’t something he should mess with, but a predator doesn’t stop hunting when he loses sight of his prey.”
Sergei nods.
Ruslan steeples his fingers in front of him.
“A predator stops hunting when he manages to find himself a new position to attack from, or he waits until the prey thinks it’s finally safe and lowers its guard.”
Sergei is the first to break the silence. “So you think he’s waiting for us to lower our guard before he strikes?”
“That, or he’s coming up with a strategy other than the one he planned at first.” I pull a red pin out of the map.
“Joaquin, as annoying as he may have been, knew the importance of hierarchy and balance. It’s why he agreed to our alliance.
The ports were his territory, and the clubs were ours.
We cooperated with each other since war is very costly. ”
Ruslan exhales loudly. “But Emiliano isn’t like Joaquin, is he?”
I pull out another pin. “He isn’t.”
I watched him each time I met Joaquin for a meeting.
He was usually quiet. At first glance it would seem that was out of respect for Joaquin, but his body language usually suggested otherwise.
He disagreed with his boss, but voicing that disapproval would only make Joaquin wary of him, so he kept quiet until he could strike.
Ruslan’s expression hardens. “He wants our territory?”
“It’s not just our territory he’s after. He wants something more.”
“Miami?” My brother’s eyes widen. “That’s sick. No one’s ever owned the city all by themselves.”
He’s right. Although we’re the kingpins of the city, every criminal organization in Florida has spent decades fighting over pieces of it—the Italians, the Irish, the Cubans, the Colombians, the Mexicans.
No one has ever managed to own it all.
Not yet.
And I doubt anyone could try without bathing the entire state in blood. The gain isn’t worth the risk, but to a madman like Emiliano, anything would be worth it.
Before I can say anything else, a loud bang on the door catches my attention.
Jesus Christ, I hate it when they knock on the door like that. Whatever it is better be urgent, or else I’ll fucking shoot the bastard.
“Come in.”
The door creaks open and Dimitri scurries inside. His entire body is covered in sweat and he’s panting like he just jogged down Mount Everest and barely managed to survive.
What catches me off-guard is the sheer panic in his eyes. I immediately think of Audrey. “What is it?”
“It’s your wife.”
My throat tightens. This fucker should know better than to keep me in suspense. “What happened to her?”
“She’s missing.”
My jaw ticks. I’m barely holding myself back from striding across the room and snapping his neck in half, but I don’t have the time for murder when Audrey could be in danger right now.
“When did you see her last?”
“I’m not sure, but the CCTV shows she left the house three hours ago. I called her, but her phone’s been switched off and the tracker on her car is disabled.”
I turn to Sergei, who’s already on his feet. “Did you keep the tail on her like I asked?”
He nods. “Volkov’s on it. I’ll call him and find out.”
“Hurry.”
He pulls out his phone and dials Volkov’s number—the secret guard I had follow her because I knew damn well something like this would happen. She just doesn’t listen, and when I find her…God, I’m going to be so fucking pissed at her for almost giving me a heart attack.
After a moment, Sergei ends the call and faces me. There’s a brief fracture in his expression, but it’s gone before anyone else would notice it. Still, it’s enough for my senses to go on high alert.
I know something’s wrong.
“Say something, goddamnit,” I growl.
He opens his mouth, but his phone beeps with an incoming message, cutting him off. He unlocks the phone and scrolls through the messages before returning his attention to me.
“Boss, there’s something you need to see.”
Unease curls in my stomach. Whatever it is, I know it’s bad. “What the hell is it?”
He hands the phone over and I read his messages with Volkov.
The first photo hits like a punch. The second drives it deeper, and by the third, something inside me has gone frighteningly still.
I stare at the screen, my grip tightening until the edge of the phone bites into my palm. Right there on the screen are pictures of my wife standing with my enemy—Emiliano.
And worst of all, she doesn’t look like she was forced to be there.
***
“I told you marrying her wasn’t a good idea,” Ruslan says beside me. “She’s nothing but trouble.”
Ignoring him, I glance at my wristwatch. It’s five p.m. already, which is two hours since Volkov sent those pictures of her meeting up Emiliano. Whatever they’re discussing must be really important seeing as she isn’t home yet.
My mind keeps circling back to that night at the club when she convinced me she wasn’t working for anyone and everything in that file was a setup. Fury simmers beneath my skin at the knowledge she snuck out to meet with that asshole behind my back.
She lied to me.
Every fucking thing between us has been a lie from the start.
“What are you going to do when she gets back?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to kill her.”
I lower my head and rub my fingers over my skull to lighten the tension building inside me.
Between Audrey’s betrayal, the hollow ache beneath my ribs, and my brother’s annoying voice, I feel the strong need to break something, to drive my fists into the wall over and over until I can breathe again.
I haven’t lost my cool in years. I’ve always been calm and calculating, but Audrey’s managed to bring out the side of me that’s hungry for blood.
Raising my head, I look at Ruslan. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“And miss this show?” His eyes glint with mischief. He’s only ever this way with me. With everyone else, he’s a cold-blooded, heartless bastard. Too bad my marriage won’t be the source of his entertainment tonight.
“Leave before I have you thrown out.”
He chuckles. “Right, as if your men would have the guts to lay their hands on me.” Ruslan studies me for another second, probably waiting for me to change my mind, and then he lets out a dramatic sigh and pushes himself off the couch.
“Fine. I’ll leave.” He straightens his jacket and starts toward the door before glancing over his shoulder. “Just remember one thing.”
I cock my brows, already knowing what he wants to say.
“If she’s working with Emiliano, she’ll tell you exactly what you want to hear.”
The words linger in the room long after the door shuts behind him. Silence settles over my home office. It’s suffocating.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey and finish the entire thing in one gulp, groaning as the liquid burns down my throat and heats up my stomach. Still, it barely does anything to calm the storm I feel inside.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
By the twentieth, I’m standing by the window overlooking the front driveway, my hands clasped behind my back so tightly my knuckles ache as I wait for my wife to come home.
I don’t know how much longer it takes. Thirty minutes. Maybe forty. But the sound of tires crunching over gravel pulls my attention outside as a black Mercedes rolls through the iron gates.
My chest tightens.
She’s home.
I watch as the car comes to a stop in front of the mansion. For several long seconds, the driver’s door doesn’t open. When it finally does, Audrey steps outside. I leave the window and return to my chair, waiting for her to come upstairs, because I know the first thing she’ll do is find me.