Chapter 2 – Viktor
I massaged my temple and leaned back in my chair. I tried so hard. I tried so fucking hard to take my mind off everything else in the room because if I hadn’t, I might as well have reached forward and grabbed the bastard by the neck.
“What. The. Fuck. Is wrong with you?” I growled, curled, and uncurled my fists, fighting the burning urge to choke the life out of the stupid asshole sitting opposite of me. I had to keep my eyes on the ceiling. One look at him and I would have lost it.
He rubbed the tattoos on his neck, fidgeted with his fingers, and raked them through his dark messy hair. “I’m sorry, man. I swear, I didn’t know.”
I didn’t know.
It was the twentieth time he’d said it; and the more he did, the more grateful he had to be that, somehow—despite the unfortunate circumstances of his birth—he had the Varkov blood running through his veins. If not, he would have been fucking dead already.
I shut my eyes and forced myself to count from five to one, backward. It didn’t work. Even the sound of his voice grated my ears.
I slammed my fists on the gleaming desk, pens and papers rattled as anger vibrated inside me. “You fucked up big time!”
He gurgled, and it was something between a frustrated growl and a scoff. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” I gritted my teeth. “Don’t fucking say it again, Boris. How could you not fucking know? Are you stupid or what?”
He was.
Boris Varkov was nothing like the Varkov men. When he stood next to his brothers and cousins, all he lacked was visible. He had the looks, but that was it. Nothing more. Nothing tangible.
Utterly useless.
Being born out of wedlock to one of the Pahkan’s whores didn’t have a nice ring to it. He was naive, slow, bloody stupid, and as reckless as the word itself.
I had only tolerated him for so long because he was the son of the late Pahkan.
His incompetence had hardly ever been a problem until now. Now he had messed with the wrong people.
The room fell silent.
Fedor picked at his fingernails looking bored with the entire situation and Boris looked as if he might bolt at any moment. But I’d be damned if Id let that happen. Angrily, I swiped a bottle from the desk, poured myself a drink, and swirled the contents in the glass. Fuck, I couldn’t even stomach the alcohol.
I made a free throw, aiming for the wall—instead of his stupid head—and the glass crashed, alcohol dripping down the wall slowly.
“You could have asked…” I faced him. He panicked when our eyes met and shifted on the seat like the coward he was. “You should have asked.”
He wiped a palm down his face, and looked straight through me, like some defense mechanism to save himself. Fucker can’t look me in the eye because he knew he screwed up big.
“I did.”
I leaned forward, my eyebrows drew together, and my nostrils flared. “Who?”
“The agent?”
“The…” Slowly, I pulled myself backward. “What fucking agent?”
I inhaled as deeply as my lungs would allow. Restraint. Control. I didn’t want to let go. All I wanted to do was to ram his fucking face into the desk. So, the bottle came next.
Crash! Againstthe wall.
The scent of pinewood and cologne slowly faded when the smell of spilled alcohol grew stronger.
“When I say ‘ask questions’, I’m not talking about some fucking cunt wearing a fancy suit and striped tie, okay, Boris? Allow me to spell it out for you since you’re fucking dumb.” I clenched my teeth. “You inherited that land from your father. And your father was the fucking Pahkan. Do you know what that means, Boris?”
He bit the corner of his mouth and shook his head, his idiocy annoyed the hell out of me.
I slammed my palms on the desk again and stood up. He flinched. “It fucking means that you ask us!”
His crime was sheer stupidity. Firstly, Boris Varkov was an idiot. Whenever I looked at him, I saw a twenty-seven-year-old child and nothing else. Every day and every conversation I had with him made me doubt if it was ever possible to make a man out of him.
Secondly, the lad, without informing us, had gone ahead to sell the land he inherited, disregarding the warehouse that was built on the property. To make it all worse, he denied to have known the importance of the warehouse before he made the sale.
I rounded the table, straightened my tie, and gave Fedor a slight nod. Fedor, my second in command is a big, tall motherfucker, and he towered over Boris as he stood behind him.
“What are you …why?” He knew better than to say another damn word, his gaze flickering back and forth between me and Fedor.
“Why did you sell it?” I slanted my head and studied him as I stood in front of him.
I needed more reasons to keep me from slipping. Otherwise, I would reconsider my decision to kill him and explain later.
Fedor glanced at me, seemingly interested in his answer too.
He licked his lips and I saw a sliver of fear in his eyes. “I had good intentions.”
I scoffed at his ignorance. His little brain couldn’t comprehend the implications of his actions, and that pissed me off. A slight nod and a wink were all Fedor needed before he grabbed Boris’s arm, flung him aside, dug his fingers into his neck, and slammed his face against my desk.
“Fuck your good intentions and tell me why you sold the fucking land!”
“Argh …okay, fine! Please, stop yelling. It’s making me nervous. I already told you it was a fucking mistake, Viktor. What I wanted was for the good of the business, and I thought selling off the land would be a great way to make some money to invest in the business.” Boris spat out as Fedor applied more pressure on his skull.
“You mean to invest in the fucking whores in the clubs, don’t you? Knowing you, you would blow that money. You are a fucking scumbag!” I leaned down and brought my lips to Boris’s ear.
“Jesus! I can explain. Let go of me.” His voice trembled.
Fedor waited for my okay before releasing his grip from Boris’s neck.
He straightened up again, crimson crawled up his neck and he rubbed it. “I mean a real investment, Viktor. Not the fucking whores or fucking clubs.”
“Why the fuck should I believe you?” I snarled.
The frustration etched deep on his face, and he pressed his lips together. “I’ve messed up. It’s all my fault.”
“It is his fault.” Fedor said, his face remaining hard and unperturbed as he stood beside me, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his eyes fixed on Boris “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Boris broke out in a sweat; the slight twitch of his eyebrow was a telltale sign that he was nervous. He turned around in his seat and tried to get Fedor to stop talking. “Things are already bad enough—”
“What’s more, Fedor?” If glares could murder a man, Boris would have been six feet under already.
Fedor cleared his throat and pointed his head at the stupid ass in front of us, who was sweating so fast that the collar of his Givenchy T-shirt got a few beads on it.
“He didn’t know who he was dealing with when he sold the property. His agent didn’t inform him either.”
“I was manipulated!” He shrieked and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with his finger.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” I barked. “Fedor, “komu on yego prodal?” [Who did he sell it to?]
Fedor was silent at first. Then, he said, “The Irish.”
The blood in my veins boiled so hot that I erupted like a volcano, and my last thread of self-control burned away.
“I am sick and tired of cleaning your goddamn messes! You know what? Fuck it.” I seethed and lunged at Boris. His eyes widened, pleading and full of fear. Too late. My fist struck his face.
A satisfying crunch filled the silence between us. T
The cracking of bones made my spine shiver with delight.
“Jesus! Ouch—shit! My nose! What the …” he cried and cupped his face. A red stream flowed down his nose and mixed with his tears. “You broke my fucking nose. What the fuck, Viktor?”
“I broke your nose?” I squatted down in front of him and roughly touched his bloodied face. “Seriously? You should be thanking me that I haven’t put a bullet in that empty head of yours.”
I pulled a white handkerchief from my jacket pocket and wiped my palms.
More tears streamed down his face, and he kicked his chair backward, crumpling to the floor. “It was a fucking mistake. Shit!”
“A fucking mistake that could cost us years of fucking investment! Real investment, Boris. In this fucking game, one wrong move can take everything, don’t you understand that?”
“I promise, I didn’t—”
“Klyanus’ Bogom, yesli ya uslyshu eto yeshche raz…” Swear to God, if I hear that one more time…
I threw the bloodstained handkerchief in his face: “Get the fuck out of my face!”
I slumped back in my seat and pondered the information. Boris had sold the land, including the warehouse, to the fucking enemy. The Irish boss, Cian O’Sullivan. If we didn’t get a grip on this, there would be a clusterfuck.
“You should leave,” Fedor said to Boris. “I can’t guarantee your safety if you spend another second in here.”
He picked himself up from the floor, clutched his face, and muttered a quiet “I’m sorry, man” before walking away.
Fedor sat down and arched an eyebrow at me. “You know we cant do anything about this shit, right??”
I massaged my temple. He was right. Boris had messed up big time, and what was done was done. What I needed now was a plan on how to fix this.
“What do you think Vlad will do when he hears?”
I stared at Fedor when he mentioned the Pakhan, Vlad Varkov. The corners of his lips curled into a smile, and he scratched at the scar under his jaw.
“When he hears about what? The land or the broken nose?”
“Both.”
I snorted. “I didn’t kill him, so I doubt he gives a fuck. Boris is almost useless as it is. He’s of no use to anyone. Besides, I had a good reason to ram my fist into his pretty face. How can anyone be so fucking stupid? What a pain in the ass.”
He chuckled and ran a hand over his shirt. “It’s a good thing hes related to the boss. Otherwise, Id be wiping the blood off the floor right now.”
I craned slightly over the table. “You still have some spots to clean.”
He cleared his throat, and his grin was overshadowed by a serious expression. “What are we going to do now?”
That was a good question. What should we do? How could we get our land back?
We needed a solution to reverse this mistake, and we needed it fast.
Cian was a dangerous man; I knew his type very well. He could be strategic, and very precise. Behind the facade of the businessman hid a cunning snake. I knew he manipulated Boris into giving away the land.
And he was going to pay for messing with us, the Bratva.
When Fedor asked questions, it meant he already had the answers piled up somewhere in the back of his shaved head. I waved a hand. “Any ideas?”
He straightened up in his chair and interlaced his fingers on the table. “If we hold his men hostage, he might change his mind and negotiate.”
That was quick, fast, and could have worked. But not with Cian O’Sullivan. Not with the fucking Irish.
I shook my head. “They don’t care whose head is next. Cian won’t give a flying fuck if we hold his men hostage.”
There was no brotherhood among them. Power and money could speak their language. But now they had something of ours, and Cian knew how important it was that we got it back.
And to do that, we had to make a trade.
Value for Value.
My lips curled to the side as red hair and green eyes flashed in my mind again. The memories were vivid, the defiance in her eyes, her smart and snarky mouth, and even her smell.
“If that won’t work, then what would?” Fedor asked, and I grinned while he patiently waited for a response.
I knew exactly what would.
I leaned back on the chair, this time, with satisfaction.
The time has come, I will find you. “Moy malen’kiy golub’.” [My little dove.]