Chapter 31
AbrAM
Blood dots the white tablecloth like red confetti. The stench of gunpowder hangs over the dining room—sweet, bold, metallic—impossible to ignore. Nico’s shot punched a hole in his own soldier’s leg. I watch steam curl off the barrel, disgusted.
The man hadn’t even regained consciousness after I flattened him. That’s Nico’s idea of loyalty management.
“Trash takes itself out,” he says, waving the muzzle in lazy circles as if he’s bored.
I stay calm, my movements calculated. Rage is a blade you hide until the perfect moment. “A pakhan who mistreats subordinates and hides behind a woman is no pakhan at all. You’re an immature fool. And that’s why you’ll never be in charge.”
The words cut through him cleanly. I see it in the twitch beneath his left eye.
He recovers with a shrug. “Tomorrow. Noon. I’ll text the location.
Just you and your brothers-in-law are to attend.
Bring anyone else and your curvy toy dies on live stream.
” He pumps a finger as if pressing a button. “Boop.”
I lunge for him, but three of his lapdogs shoulder into me.
I could drop them and I almost do. But I know if I waste a second fighting these idiots, Jenna’s gone.
Nico backs toward the door, humming some Sinatra tune, before vanishing into the foyer.
Only then do the goons release me, keeping their guns trained on my chest until they’re out the door.
I sprint after them, hitting the sidewalk just in time to see taillights fishtailing off into the Vegas night. Two SUVs, black glass. A third idles at the curb. One look and I know Jenna isn’t inside. I’m sure they have her tucked in the middle vehicle like precious cargo.
I pull my Glock and finger the trigger, considering a hopeless parting shot before lowering the weapon. I won’t risk Jenna’s life or innocent bystanders on an ego spasm.
Instead, I memorize plate digits and find the valet, expressing my urgency. He brings my car seconds later. I jump in and slam the accelerator.
Ten blocks. Twelve. The Strip’s neon blurs past, alive with tourists oblivious to the mob war boiling underneath it all. I slow at every intersection, scanning for blacked out Escalades, but it’s useless. I’m at least five minutes behind, an eternity where Jenna’s concerned.
I use the voice command on my dash-mounted phone. “Denis. Mikail. Conference.”
I hear two clicks as they come on the line.
“He ambushed us,” I say. No greeting, no preamble. “Parking-garage stunt was kindergarten. Tonight was the real play.”
Denis hisses. “She’s alive?”
“Alive—for now.”
Mikail curses in Russian before slipping back to English. “Cameras?”
“Restaurant system probably loops locally—no live relay. But there’s street CCTV at Flamingo and Koval. Get Detective Johnson into the feed.” Detective Simone Johnson is one of many LVPD cops we have on payroll.
“I’m on with her already,” Mikail says. I can hear keys jingling in the background. “She’ll pull everything northbound.”
“Good.” I carve a tight left, tires screeching. City lights strobe across the windshield. “Send a crew to the bistro. One Agosti soldier down, bullet in the leg. I knocked him out before Nico shot him. Pick him up before the cops do.”
“Fucking hell. We’ll do a sweep. And the staff?” Denis says.
“No casualties, staff and patrons got out safely. Nico wanted a show, not a body count.” Except for his own man. Fucking idiot.
I hit a red light and punch the steering wheel, feeling the leather give beneath my knuckles.
Regret gnaws at me. I should’ve accepted protection detail tonight instead of waiting until tomorrow, should’ve clocked blind spots.
Jenna’s scent lingers on my shirt, vanilla now mixed with a tangy trace of gunpowder. I grit my teeth until my jaw hurts.
Mikail breaks in. “Traffic camera at Paradise Road picked up two black SUVs headed east toward Henderson. Johnson’s tagging plate fragments.”
“Push it,” I snarl. “Offer the detective a charitable contribution. I want a live trace.”
“Understood.”
Denis sounds a lot calmer than I feel. “What’s your plan?”
“Nico’s plan is to have our long-awaited meeting tomorrow at noon.
My plan is to end this before sunrise.” I accelerate through a yellow, cussing at a cabbie.
“We pull every asset. Street sweepers, club security, drone eyes. Nico thinks he’s top dog; clearly he’s forgotten who owns half this desert. ”
“Abram,” Denis says quietly, “you sure you can stay focused? Nico’s using Jenna as leverage.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’m still in control. I’ll be precise. I’ll also be ruthless.”
They accept it. We are all built from old Bratva rules: family, honor, vengeance measured in blood.
I end the call just as the asphalt shifts into suburbia. Henderson’s sleepy cul-de-sacs sprawl beneath dimly lit streetlamps. Too many turns, too many places to hide. The Escalades could’ve vanished into any driveway.
My phone buzzes with a text from Nico.
Remember. Tomorrow, noon. Don’t be late. Bring the brothers-in-law only—no extras. She’ll be the guest of honor.
My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel harder.
Another buzz, this time a photo attachment. It’s Jenna, wrists zip-tied, seated in the back of a car. Her cheek is still red from where he slapped her.
Fury consumes me.
I toss the phone to the passenger seat before I pulverize it. I need to think. Nico’s weakness is vanity. He wants a spectacle, wants me to feel cornered.
I’ll give him what he wants.
Everybody knows what happens when you corner an animal that feels threatened.
Back at my penthouse, I pour two fingers of vodka but don’t drink it. I stare out at the glitter of the Strip, my mind racing.
Jenna. My bright, blazing woman. I caged my emotions, telling myself distance would keep her safe. Fool’s logic—wolves smell love like fresh blood.
I grab a burner phone and dial a number I haven’t used in years.
A gravelly voice answers in Russian. “Pakhan.”
“Sergei. I need a favor. Tonight.”
“Name it.”
“Need eyes on a convoy. Black Escalades. License digits inbound. Find it. I want location, security headcount, guard rotations.” I pause. “No civilians harmed.”
“Understood.” He doesn’t ask questions.
Next, I send a text to Denis.
Pull warehouse 17C—toy shipment. Load crates marked “vodka.” Deliver to my storehouse by 4 a.m. The crates contain ballistic plates, suppressed rifles, and GPS scramblers. If Nico wants a meeting, we’re showing up prepared.
The night stretches thin. I pace the floors, replaying every moment of Jenna’s abduction in my head. She remained strong even when terror swam in her eyes. The way she tried to bite Nico. The way she broke free and slapped him. Pride mixed with fear knot my chest.
I imagine her locked up in some gaudy room at the Agosti estate, Nico’s ego dripping off the walls. She’ll be scared, but she won’t fold. My lioness.
I vow right then and there that she will never again attend a public dinner without half a platoon watching. She will never doubt her worth, never fear the shadows I walk in. She will carry my name and my protection.
Sergei texts at midnight.
Convoy spotted an hour ago stopped near Lake Las Vegas. Two SUVs, nine men, one bound female, one medic. Visual lost, but we’ll track them down.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Jenna’s alive.
I fire back a reply.
Eyes on. Radio silence until dawn.
Then I force myself to sit. To plan. Rage is like a candle—it burns bright, burns fast, then leaves you blind. Jenna deserves better than blind vengeance; she deserves me at my sharpest.
My phone pings again, another photo from Nico. Jenna is still tied, now with a mocking caption: Sleep tight, lover boy.
Wrong move, ass clown.
I polish off the vodka, ice shards crunching between my teeth, and stride to the elevator. The night hasn’t ended, it’s simply reached intermission.
Time for act two.