Chapter 3
Kirill
It’s Saturday night, so it’s no surprise the club’s packed. Smoke, perfume, cheap vodka, and bad decisions hang in the air. My soldiers are scattered around, laughing too loud, pretending they don’t notice me sitting in the corner booth. I’m fine with that.
I’m halfway through zoning out to some mind-numbing game on my phone when it buzzes in my hand, alerting me to an incoming call.
The Pakhan. Of course.
My brother’s voice has become the soundtrack of my week. In all the four years I’ve lived stateside, he’s never called me as much as he has in the last few days. It’s starting to get tiresome.
I answer before the third ring. “You really should relax, Misha. Calling every hour won’t make me find Kira any faster.”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?” My eyebrow lifts, already bracing myself. “Then what is it this time?”
“I’m sending Kostya your way,” Misha says flatly.
Of course he is.
I drag a hand down my face. “Why? What’s the kid done now?”
My youngest brother’s got a talent for screwing things up—half out of boredom, half out of spite. And every damn time, I’m usually the one patching up the mess.
“He hasn’t done anything. Not this time. The feds, on the other hand, just blew months of work on the West Side.”
“Well, fuck. That’s not good news.”
“No, it’s not,” Misha says, irritation bleeding through his voice. “I want Kostya out of California for a few months. At least until the heat dies down. Then he can head back to San Francisco.”
“And you want me to babysit him until then, I’m guessing.”
“Just until you both come home.”
Home.
Russia.
Misha’s not the sentimental type, but with Christmas around the corner, I get why he wants everyone close. Elena likes the house loud this time of year. With her family long gone, it’s on us, the Petrovs, to fill the silence in that cold fortress Misha calls home.
“Fine. When is he coming?”
“In a week or two, when it’s safe enough for him to travel. The last thing I want is for Kostya to get arrested by the feds.”
“So who’s looking after him now?”
Yeah, I said it. Kostya might be twenty-three, but he still acts like a kid half the time. Leave him unsupervised, and things go sideways fast.
“The Triads are keeping him in one of their safehouses. When they feel the heat is off him, they’ll arrange for Kostya to fly over to Chicago.” I grind my teeth at his statement.
“The Triad, huh? So does that mean we’re in cahoots with them now, too?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
I don’t press for further details. Misha never does anything without a reason. Every handshake he offers has a knife hidden up the sleeve, and somehow, he always ends up on top.
I might not understand his strategy, but I’ll give him this—he’s shown surprising restraint with the Outfit in Chicago. London hasn’t been so lucky. But that’s because Sasha’s got a hard-on for the Brits. Especially the Cranes.
Still, that’s his mess, not mine.
All in all, I’m a hell of a lot more comfortable dealing with the Chicago syndicate than I am with the Triad. Vincenzo Romano—for all his faults—is a man of honor, the kind who keeps his word even when it costs him.
The Triad is a different beast altogether. They play by their own rules, answer to no one, and treat every other criminal organization like something stuck to the bottom of their shoe.
So why deal with us? Why offer Kostya a safe haven when they don’t have to?
Questions like that make my hackles rise, and not in a good way.
They want something. They always do. And the fact that Misha doesn’t sound even slightly concerned about their eagerness to assist us in our time of need tells me he already knows what they want, and he’s more than willing to pay the price for it.
The silence on the line says everything he won’t.
If I want Misha to share his plans, I’m shit out of luck.
He’s the Pakhan for a reason. He moves the chess pieces on the board, while the rest of us are expected to follow orders, hoping we’re not the ones being sacrificed for the greater good of the Bratva.
And though love and loyalty tie me to my brother, I’m not foolish enough to think he wouldn’t use me or any of my siblings to get what he wants.
“Well, tell me when his flight lands and I’ll roll out the red carpet. Maybe even make a little welcome sign.” I throw the joke out just to break the silence.
Of course, Misha doesn’t laugh. And that’s because Misha doesn’t do jokes. Not since Katya died. Not since our babushka passed. And definitely not since Elena got sick.
Speaking of which… “How’s Elena, by the way?” I ask, genuinely wanting to know how my sister-in-law’s holding up.
“As well as can be expected,” Misha says, his voice lower, heavier.
“But the doctors are hopeful, right? That’s what they said?”
“She’s fought this thing once before. She’ll fight it again.”
In other words, cancer had better be on its best behavior if it doesn’t want to deal with my brother’s wrath.
Still, it’s a crueler enemy than any we’ve faced.
It takes without reason, without mercy. And I’m not sure it really cares if Misha bares his teeth at it or not.
Some monsters can’t be intimidated. They just keep taking… until there’s nothing left.
“Fair enough,” I say quietly, since adding anything more to that remark would be like stepping on a landmine I couldn’t walk away from.
“Any news on Kira’s whereabouts?” he asks then, shifting to the other reason for his call.
“Not yet. But I’m making preparations.”
“And by preparations, you mean getting close to Romano’s daughter, I presume?” he asks, still sounding like he’s not entirely on board with my plan.
“Precisely.”
“And how do you intend to do that again?”
I open my mouth to tell him my plan, when a flash of flaming red hair cuts through the crowd, my smile widening when I see it moving straight toward me.
“Oh, brother,” I murmur, grinning. “I won’t have to do a thing. She’s the one who will end up seeking me out.”
“Made that much of an impression on her, did you?” Misha’s voice drips with skepticism.
“She just walked into the club, so you tell me.” I hang up, chuckling under my breath.
Timing’s everything, and Stella Romano has impeccable timing.
“Are you lost, milaya? I didn’t think you’d come looking for me so soon.”
“Funny,” she says, scowling as her gaze sweeps over the club, her nostrils flaring like the smell alone offends her.
“By the look on your face, I can tell you didn’t come for the show.” I lean back in my seat, arms stretched lazily across the backrest of the booth. “So what did you come for? Me, perhaps?”
“Don’t get cocky. It’s not a good look on you.”
“And what would look good on me?” My smile broadens. “Maybe you… on my lap?”
She glances at me from under her lashes, then laughs. “Oh, please. I’d never sit on any man’s lap, least of all yours.”
“Oh, I think before the night’s through, you’ll be singing a different tune.”
“Doubtful.” She scoffs.
“Shall we make a wager, then?”
Her brow arches. “You want to make a bet?”
“Mm-hm. Like you last night, I’m terribly bored. Might as well make the night a bit more interesting.”
“Fine. I’ll play.” She slides into my booth while keeping a careful distance between us.
“I do love a woman who likes to rise to a challenge.”
“Yeah, yeah, stop sweet-talking me, Kirill. It doesn’t work on me like you think it does.”
“Are you sure?” I purr, inching closer to her.
“Hold your fucking horses,” she says, pressing a hand to my chest before I get too close. My smile falters slightly at the unwanted heat the simple touch provokes. “If I’m going to play your little game,” she continues, “then I need to know there’s a prize worth betting on.”
“Fair enough,” I say, tilting my head with a grin, thankful she’s lowered her hand from my chest. “What do you want?”
“Last time I was here, you lied to me and my brothers,” she accuses point-blank. “I want to know why.” My smile drops again.
“If you’re referring to that little trinket, I told you before, I have no—”
“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Kirill. I know you know something, and I’m not leaving this club until you tell me what.”
“You’re a feisty little devil, aren’t you?” I tease, masking my irritation at her seeing through my little performance last time.
“If you mean I don’t bullshit around, then yes.”
“Very well, then. If that’s your prize, mine should match its value.”
“Of course it should.” She rolls her eyes. “What do you want?”
“Like I said… I want you, on my lap—”
“That’s it? That’s all you want?”
“You didn’t let me finish. I want you on my lap and a kiss.” I grin smugly since there is no way she’s winning this wager.
“A kiss?” She fixes me with that sharp, assessing look of hers. “Don’t you get enough of that without having to blackmail me for it?”
“First of all, no one’s blackmailing anyone here. We’re making a wager, nothing more. And second, I don’t play where I work.”
“Are you saying you’ve never sampled the goods on your stage?” She snorts with utter disdain.
“I’m saying I prefer quality over convenience.”
“Sure you do,” she retorts, unconvinced.
If only she knew how honest I’m being when I say that I don’t eat where I work.
Truth is, I can’t remember the last time I had a woman in my bed, or like I’m suggesting now, on my lap.
Bratva business doesn’t leave much room for fucking around.
Not that I’m complaining. Even if I did mix business with pleasure, I keep high standards for the women I spend my time with.
And not many meet them. Stella, though, meets them just fine without even trying.
She’s drop-dead gorgeous, sure, but it’s that sharp, snarky mouth of hers that’s got me hooked.
“So what exactly is the game?” she asks, once she’s tired of me staring at the exquisite mouth of hers.
I snap my fingers at one of my soldiers sitting at a nearby table. “Lev! Karty!”
Lev jumps up from his seat to quickly retrieve a deck of cards for me.
“Card games?” she asks.