Chapter 17 Viking
CHAPTER 17
VIKING
The vultures were waiting. Kristoff and Sokolov sat on lawn chairs to his right, sharing a drink and a cigar. Scattered around them were both Sokolov’s men and their own, all eager to watch the upcoming brawl. In the old days, they’d make him run the gauntlet for breaking a blood vow. He should be thankful he still had a chance to see another day.
The women weren’t there, but most likely were watching through the curtains. He could feel Annika’s vengeful eyes on his back. Word had gotten to him she had personally demanded retribution for the slight against her. He got that. She was a Russian mob princess after all, and had her pride. Apparently, she had even shed a tear or two. Her crocodile tears didn’t fool him. She was a blood-thirsty bitch whose pride he’d offended.
Still, to save her face, and Sokolov’s, Kristoff had come up with a solution: a brawl between the two Bratvas, with Vasili leading the Pakhan’s, against any three men of Viking’s choosing. Viking recognized it for what it was—a way to save face for both parties. Whatever Sokolov really thought of his breaking off the engagement was anyone’s guess. What Viking did know was that business was everything to him. The old man couldn’t care less about who his niece married, as long as it was someone he could use.
Sokolov was watching with intent, though his face gave nothing away. He raised his glass. “Nothing forges stronger bonds as when men bleed together.”
As if on cue, Vasili stepped forward, flanked by two of his men. If there was ever a trio that had been fed with meat and corn their entire life, it would be these three mean-looking Russians. They all had buzzcuts and looked like they ate kittens for breakfast.
It didn’t matter. He was bigger.
Baran appeared by his side, followed by Yuri.
“The pretty Kaplan prince,” Vasili said, a sneer in his tone. “Are you sure you can hold your own, boy? I wouldn’t want your big brother to look me up when I mess your face up, raki boy.”
The insult was clear. Like most people who knew Baran only by his feared family name, Vasili underestimated him.
Baran’s lips stretched into a wide grin. “I’m going to shove that bottle of vodka down your throat. Proving, once and for all, why raki is superior to your Russian choice of poison.”
Hands had been shaken, pleasantries had been exchanged. Time to get this show on the road.
Without further ado, Viking grabbed Vasili by the collar and head-butted him. He pushed away the pain radiating off his own skull. Seeing Vasili’s nose splinter and him going down, was worth everything.
After that, it was a free-for-all. Fists smashed into skulls, elbows were shoved into faces, bones were broken.
Viking spit out the blood filling his mouth as he shoved Vasili off of him. The bastard was surprisingly fast on his feet. All that vodka in his veins must have dulled the pain or something. Viking took another blow to his ribs and didn’t even hit back when he saw an opening.
Sokolov was a proud man. If his supposedly master crew got annihilated in front of him, it would make him look weak. The man might feel humiliated. A pissed-off Pakhan was bad for business. To his right, he saw Baran didn’t have the same notion. He had one of the meatheads in an arm-lock and was choking the shit out of him. He continued, right up until the red face of his adversary turned purple and the guy slumped onto the grass, passed out. That’s what you got for underestimating the Turk, insulting his heritage, and thinking bulk would always win over brain.
Yuri was having a field day as well. He was bleeding from an eyebrow but smiled as if he was enjoying the fight. Then again, Yuri’s life had been a struggle since the day he was born. Kristoff had taken the beat-up runaway kid in when he’d found him in a leaking boat. It was either that or turn him back in to foster care.
Viking ducked when Vasili tried to punch a hole in his face. He locked eyes with Yuri and looked down, then up, without giving their signal away. He knew it would be no use trying to get Baran to duck a fight. Once his engine got running, there was no stopping him. And there was no way in hell he was gonna lose to that prick, Vasili. Thinking of his hands pawing at Elena still made him see red. Yuri would take one for the team though.
As expected, Yuri made a rookie “mistake” and got a fist to his temple. He spiraled and went down. Viking would thank him later.
Vasili head-charged at his midriff, taking them both down.
He heard a bottle clank onto the table. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kristoff and Sokolov rise from their chairs.
“Let’s drink!”
And just like that, with Sokolov raising another glass, the fight was over.
Viking got up, didn’t bother to give Vasili a hand, and went for a shot glass Kristoff had just filled. Wiping the blood from his chin, he downed it. Then he took another one. The alcohol burned his split lip, but it was nothing compared to what awaited him.
It was Judgment Time.
The men gathered around the table. Kristoff locked eyes with him, then took out his gun. He’d brought a six-shot revolver with him for the occasion. After all, Sokolov appreciated tradition. And he sure was going to enjoy this one as it wasn’t every day someone volunteered to have their brains blown out.
Kristoff took out the bullets, one by one. Then he grabbed one off the table and placed it back into the piece. He gave the chamber a spin.
A silence fell in the back yard.
Viking braced himself. A one-in-six chance to turn his brain into mush. He’d dealt with worse odds. He could feel all eyes settle on him. There was a movement in one of the upstairs windows, the room with the balcony, which had housed Elena for the past few days. Was Elena watching this? She must know what was going on by now. Sy would have told her. Was she hoping she’d become a widow again?
Maybe you shouldn’t have treated her like crap.
She deserved it.
Life is short.
Viking knew what was coming. He knew the chances of this being his last day on Earth. He wasn’t afraid to die, never had been. He’d been afraid lots of times in his teens, about other things. Afraid his dad wouldn’t come back from another tour, afraid he’d fail to look after his mom and brother as he’d promised to his father. When he met Elena, he’d been afraid he wouldn’t be good enough for her, that she’d someday wake up and leave him, hating him for robbing her of her dreams. In the end, that did happen. She’d left him, just as Giorgia had predicted. Just as Elena’s brother Ricky had told him. Would he have done things differently knowing that one day she would be his possible downfall not once but twice? That she’d be the reason he’d be forced to walk the Earth every day waking up smelling her on his skin? Every damn morning hearing her laugh? As Kristoff gestured him closer, he looked back up to the railing one last time.
Nah, he wouldn’t have done one fucking thing differently. She’d been his the moment he set eyes on her. Maybe she was a punishment for all the bad he’d done, the people he’d hurt. Maybe she was given to him wrapped as the most enchanting gift to enrich his world, just to be snatched away from him, making him bleed. Whatever it was—divine punishment, karma, or some other shit—she was his now. He didn’t intend to die today. But if he did, his lights would go out knowing he’d lived his life to the fullest. He had the best friends—no, brothers—both blood and chosen, he could ever have. He’d go to his grave knowing love to the point of obsession and losing it, but he had gained a daughter. He could’ve done worse.
Ball and chain. Yeah, that idea appealed much more to him. If he lived to see another sunrise, he was gonna treat her like a mafia wife. Having made up his mind, a weight he didn’t realize he was carrying lifted off his chest.
Hating to postpone the inevitable, he pushed past Baran and stood before Kristoff.
“You are my bratan,” Kristoff stated.
Damn right. They were brothers by choice. Their bond was stronger than blood ties.
“But you are also brigadier in my Bratva,” Kristoff continued. “Last night. you broke a vow to a Pakhan. As per our tradition, now chance will rule whether you deserve to live, acquitted from your wrongdoing, or die. Viking Skarsgard, do you have any last words?”
Kristoff had a way with words. Viking did not.
“Let’s get this over with.” He grabbed the gun and placed it to his temple. Then he looked his friend in the eye and pulled the trigger.