24. Nik
The office building is dead silent as I step through the rotating doors and take the elevator up. It’s already 9 p.m., and I doubt I’ll be getting home before midnight with this meeting happening so late in the evening.
Stepping off the elevator, I notice light trickling out from under Luka’s door. Movement on the other side of the door causes shadows to slice through the strip of light. Voices inside means he hasn’t summoned me here alone.
I pass Natallia’s desk, glancing at the stack of colored Post-it notes and neatly organized file folders. It’s weird not seeing her here.
I knock, and Luka calls out for me to enter. Igor is pacing back and forth, tugging at his tie. Luka stands behind his desk, peering down at the city. The phone in his hand rings on speakerphone before going to voicemail.
“Dmitry. Call in.” Luka hangs up and tosses the phone across his desk, then brings both hands to his hair, tugging lightly. “Shit.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, walking over.
Igor stops pacing and joins us at the desk.
“Dmitry was sent out on surveillance two hours ago.” Luka tucks his hands into his pockets, then immediately pulls them out and reaches for his phone. “I tasked him with sitting outside EV to watch for some of the bigger names on the list Salvatore provided us. He was supposed to check in an hour ago.”
Igor adds, “The tracker on his cell shows he’s still there, right outside. Most likely in his car. He hasn’t moved.”
“What can I do?” I ask, hating the fact that Dmitry was sent alone. It’s not normal, but we also don’t do many surveillance-only jobs. I can tell by Luka’s demeanor he’s already blaming himself.
“I need you with us. We’re going to check on him, see what’s holding him up.”
“Done.”
I shove way thoughts of Luna back at the warehouse—and the look Lev gave her as I was leaving a few hours ago. I need to focus.
Bratva first.
Always.
Traffic makes our trip take longer than expected, and Luka’s constant tapping in the back seat is driving me crazy. Igor is driving, which is best. Luka and I aren’t overly calm right now.
When we make it to the alley, it’s quiet. The surrounding businesses are closed for the night. Dmitry’s car is pulled over on the opposite side of the street, directly across from the alley. There are no other vehicles around, and a sense of foreboding settles over me as we pull up behind his Mercedes.
The moon and the surrounding streetlamps illuminate the silver car. I don’t see any movement inside, and my uneasiness turns suffocating. With the sudden roaring in my ears, I barely notice Luka reaching for his handle to get out.
“Nyet. Boss. Wait for Igor and I.”
He growls but sits back, obeying, something I don’t think he would’ve done before Kate.
Igor and I open our doors and lurch toward Dmitry’s sleek car. Igor walks around to the front and shakes his head back at Luka. He isn’t there.
My gaze moves across the street to the dark void of the alleyway. There isn’t any movement down there, either. EVs occupants are probably already fully entrenched in their debauchery. I’m curious if there’s another entrance we don”t know about. There has to be.
I try the driver’s side door, and it opens. Poking my head in, I take a quick look in the back seat. It’s empty. Up front, there’s a fast-food drink cup in the cupholder. I pick it up, swirling it around—about half gone. His cell phone isn’t in the console.
“You said his phone tracks here?”
“Da.”
Igor opens the other passenger door and rummages around the glove box, shuffling through receipts, wrappers, and an extra firearm. Nothing.
“See any keys?”
The fact they aren’t here makes me think he may have wandered off somewhere. Maybe he caught up with a girl and snuck away. But, at the same time, that isn’t the Dmitry I know. He wouldn’t shirk his job, especially with Luka.
“Let’s pop the trunk.” I motion with my thumb up, and Igor reaches down to lift the trunk release. We shut both doors and walk to the back of the vehicle. Igor lifts the trunk.
Holy shit.
“Nyet! Damn it!” Igor yells.
I spin around and motion for Luka to come over.
“Nyet. Nyet!” Luka snarls, clenching his fists as he looks at what’s in the trunk.
Dmitry, with blood smeared around his throat like it was slashed. His shirt has been removed, and the initials EV are carved into his chest. Igor steps onto the sidewalk, pressing his palms to his eyes.
“That’s it. I’m going in.” Luka yanks out his weapon and checks the chamber.
“Nyet, Luka. Stop. We need to deal with Dmitry’s body. We can’t go in there right now. We know nothing about what we’d be walking into.” I grab his arm as he starts across the street. “Luka, come on. Kate wants you home safe.”
He pauses in the middle of the road, gun hanging down at his side. He tucks his chin to his chest, and I watch his shoulders shake.
We’ve lost men before. Death isn’t a new concept for any of us. But this was supposed to be a simple surveillance job. How did it end like this? And there wasn’t even a brother here with him to have his back. I feel sick.
Dmitry’s eyes are wide open. I close them. “Rest easy, brother.”
I pat around his body, searching for anything useful, and my hand slips over a slim phone next to where his knees are folded over. I pull it out. A note taped to the front of it reads: PLAY ME.
Igor leans over my shoulder. “We need to move his car to a warehouse for the team to process everything.”
He’s right. We can’t keep standing here. Luka turns to me, and I hold up the phone. “They have a message for us.”
I glance toward the alleyway, then scan the surrounding area again. More nothing. Damn it. I’m fed up with being blind when it comes to these people. They aren’t invincible.
Igor checks Dmitry’s pockets. When he finds the keys, he volunteers to drive.
We end up taking Dmitry’s body to Warehouse Nine. We have the necessary facilities here to store his body until our mortician can prepare him for burial.
Up in the warehouse office, I set the PLAY ME phone on the table. This room is small. A wooden desk that Luka uses when he’s here sits along one wall, and a leather couch is pushed up against another. And, tucked between the desk and the couch is a well-stocked bar cart.
Grabbing a bottle of vodka, I pour us each a glass, the liquor sloshing up the sides with my shaky hands. We raise our drinks, each of us saying something to Dmitry in the quiet of the room.
Afterward, Luka picks up the phone, his hands turning it over several times before switching it on. A video immediately starts to play, and the story it tells is … angering.
The footage is from a security camera across the street from the alleyway, right above where Dmitry’s car was parked. Two men in suits exit the alley dragging a young girl behind them. She’s fighting, digging her heels in. Her skirt rides up, exposing her. She’s gagged, but her mouth is opening and closing as she screams. Blood seeps out of her nose, and her hair is tangled in the hands of one of the men dragging her. A black town car waits at the alley’s entrance, and they wrestle her to the door.
A man darts into view, gun raised.
Dmitry.
There’s no audio, but I can tell he’s yelling at the men. They both back away from the girl, and he goes to her, shutting the car door and putting his back to the alleyway.
Shit no.
A shadowy figure emerges from the alley, hitting Dmitry over the head with the butt of a pistol. Dmitry’s gun flies out of his hand, and he crumples to the pavement. Another man grabs the girl and drags her to the vehicle.
Dmitry tries to stand, but the man who hit him over the head comes up behind him, tilts his head, and slits his throat. It’s done with precision. The perfect angle, the perfect amount of pressure. Only professionals know how to slash a man’s throat without turning it into a jagged hack job.
Dmitry’s hands fly to his neck, and within seconds he’s lifeless on the ground. Several men in black suits rush out from the alleyway, pick him up, and drag him out of the security feed. The video fades to black, leaving seven white words.
Keep your Bratva nose where it belongs.
Luka chucks the phone across the room. With a sharp smack, it hits the wall and shatters into multiple pieces.
“I told him not to engage! Why couldn’t he listen?!” he shouts. He grabs his tumbler and tips it back, downing his drink, and then snatches the bottle to pour himself another. I take a shot of mine and slam it down on the desk. When I reach for the bottle, Luka pours me another glass himself.
“Dmitry was trying to protect the girl,” I say to no one.
He was trying to help her, to keep powerful, filthy men from using her.
We sit there, each of us staring into our glasses, vengeance on our minds. The air in the room grows suffocating, and I loosen my tie before trying to take the bottle once more. Luka’s hand snaps out and takes it away from me.
“You have to drive, Nikolai.”
I nod, but at the moment, I don’t care. I want to drink. To drown in it.
Igor stands. “When do we get to strike back? They are nothing. We are the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra, along with others who would ally with us. Why don’t we march in there and kill every last one of them?”
Any other time, speaking to the pakhan assertively would earn you punishment, but Luka nods, as if wishing it were that simple.
“They have several other clubs across the US,” he says, “and they’re powerful people—who could easily arrest all of the Bratva. They don’t seem to care about attacking us as long as we leave them to their fetishes.”
I hate the way that sounds. Because they don’t bother us, we shouldn’t bother them. Nyet. I won’t accept that—I can’t.
“Then what’s the plan?” I ask.
Luka stares at me. I know that look—it’s the look of indecision and conflict. His expression would almost mimic a deer in the headlights if it weren’t masked by stone-cold grief. He’s lost.
“We will mourn Dmitry, and we will meet with Salvatore,” he says finally. “I have phone calls to make to the family, and we need to inform our men.”
Decision made.
It’s 3 a.m. by the time I pull onto the warehouse’s gravel drive. The silence on the way home did nothing but let my grief fester and my thoughts darken. When will I die? It’s something that lingers in the back of most people’s minds. For Mafia men, though, it’s more persistent.
Upon entering the gate, I slow—the darkness of the forest mirroring my inner most thoughts. As if it can read them and beckons me closer. If I were the one who’d died, I’d leave Luna with—what? Would she be made to return to the Cosa Nostra? Would Buscetta marry her off to someone else? What would happen to her if it had been me who’d rushed to the girl, intent on saving her? And I would have.
Flashes of Luna in that position claw at my mind, and I swerve, narrowly missing a tree.
My car creeps along until the warehouse comes into view. Two guards are pacing outside, keeping an eye on the perimeter. I quickly let them know what happened and ask them to inform their replacements at shift change, and then I’m taking the stairs two at a time and blowing through the door. Luna’s calming scent wafts through the apartment on a breeze from the cracked windows. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Hunting a liquor bottle from my designated shelf in the kitchen, I pour a triple shot of vodka. Taking a large sip, I loosen my tie and scan the apartment. The traces of Luna are subtle. The book on the side table by the sofa, the small mason jar of wildflowers next to the sink, her sneakers by the door. Little touches of her have infiltrated my apartment, and I can’t decide if I want more disruption—or if I want to stomp it out altogether.
I tear my suit jacket off, letting it flop on the couch. Drifting over to the windows, I peer down. Twelve additional shipments arrived today, and the warehouse is stacked full. I take another swig of my drink, relishing the burn.
Damn it, Dmitry.
I unbutton my shirt. Goosebumps rise as cold air brushes my stomach. My gaze lingers on the bedroom door for a moment before I drag my feet in that direction.
Luna has the window open in here as well, and the temperature is perfect for sleeping. A moonbeam filters into the room, forming a perfect spotlight on the bed where she rests, the covers rising and falling with each peaceful breath.
I’m starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, and my foot bumps into a side table as I stumble my way over to my leather chair.
“Ouch,”I mutter to myself, even though I didn’t feel it. I don’t feel anything.
Sheets rustle, and I freeze midway to the chair. A moment later, Luna’s movements stop, her soft breaths filling the silence. I sink down into the seat, the leather creaking as it accommodates my large frame.
I think of Dmitry, and the rage seething underneath my skin causes me to fidget. Adrenaline courses through my body, along with a mix of liquor, anger, and—I look at Luna—desire.
I watch her and I want her. I tell myself it’s physical. That’s the reason my hands ache to skim her smooth skin. It’s merely because she’s here—it’s a natural reaction. That’s what I tell myself.
But I’m afraid it’s a lie.