12. Brothers, can’t live with them, can’t kill them #2
“That you were too dumb to pick up on my jokes and to play nice. Until, at least, you shave off that pornstar tash.”
I flip him the bird.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What does it make you wonder?”
“If the O’Donnellys can actually do it. If they can get a child into the Oval Office.”
“You hate that kid.”
“And?”
“Going to cozy up to him so you can whisper in his ear?” Misha taunts.
“I think the Irish have that covered.” I rub my jaw. “Victoria comported herself well.”
“Oh, she did, did she? She’s not a complete waste of oxygen—”
He gasps as I jump up and slam him into the wall. I grab him by the hair and knock his head into Harrington’s, who groans in pain but doesn’t awaken.
“You fucker!” Misha punches me in the gut to push me off him.
“I told you not to talk shit about her. I put up with your Z-list girlfriend. The least you can do is put up with mine.”
He pulls his arm back to smash into my face. “Don’t you call her that!”
The two of us fall to the floor in a blur of punches and kicks.
I break his nose, he almost sprains my wrist, and I definitely get him in the balls.
By the end, both of us are gulping down air and a lack of resolution remains.
It isn’t the first time there’s been such discord between us, but about the women in our lives? It’s new territory.
And I don’t like it.
“Asshole, you know I’d need surgery if I broke it again.”
Ah, yes, the deviated septum.
I’d say I had forgotten, but that’d be a lie.
“Ever heard of negative reinforcement?”
“Fucking hate you sometimes,” he fumes, gingerly prodding his nose.
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“And, can I just say that I hate your elocution teacher too. You sound like you sucked off a member of the royal family then got hit on the head and woke up in America. And that’s when we’re speaking in Russian!
“We’ll always be street rats, Maxim. Always. Why you bother trying to become legitimate is beyond me.”
I rub my jaw, not because the truth hurts, but because he got a good hit in.
“She makes you reach too far for the stars. You’re so caught up on what she used to be that you forget what YOU are now. So what, she’s a Bratva princess. The Bratva’s dead in New York. We rule it now.”
“The Bratva’s going nowhere. You know that as well as I do. We can take over as many cities as we want, we can turn men away from their rhetoric, the US can be our stronghold, but it’s still a global concern.”
“And you think she’ll be your bridge?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s the princess and you’re the frog.”
“You need to stop watching Disney movies, man. It’s emasculating.”
“Fuck you.”
“Gladly. Have you seen me?”
He growls then curls upward, cautiously pressing his nose from side to side. “Is he dead?”
“No. Panic attack. Think he stirred when you headbutted him then passed out again.”
“Oh, I headbutted him, did I?”
“I was there. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“False witness alert,” he grouches. “Are you keeping him as a house pet or killing him?”
“Keeping him.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
He shoots me a disgruntled look. “Are you not telling me because you’re being a secretive dick or because it’s related to this dumb idea that that bitch—”
“Careful,” I warn.
“—can be our in with the Veronians?”
“Both.” I glower at him. “What’s your problem with her anyway?”
“I told you. She’s a liability. You can’t afford those. She distracts you and it’ll get you killed. Every other woman, you don’t give a fuck about. It’s why your Pope act doesn’t bother you. You don’t want anyone else. And that’s what makes her more dangerous.
“Not only would you go to stupid lengths for her, she’s a big, fat target for our enemies to strike at.”
He’s right.
I know he is.
“She’s mine.”
Gingerly, Misha shapes his injured nose, but he doesn’t argue with me or bitch about Victoria. He only sits there, brow knitted.
Then, after God knows how long of me watching blood drip from the tip of his nose onto the grimy floor, he proclaims, “We’ll keep her safe.
” He holds his hand out to the side for me to fist bump.
“I still think you’re a lunatic. And that’s without the obsession of you sending her body parts. Someone’ll figure it out one day.”
“That’s one day’s problem.”
“It had better not be. We’re meeting with the Irish tomorrow to discuss boundary demarcations because the last dozen of those cunt Albanians won’t die.” He gets to his feet with a groan and a groused, “Too old for this shit.” Then he holds out his hand for me to take.
I don’t accept it because I wasn’t born yesterday.
That has him harrumphing and stomping from the room, leaving me with Harrington.
“I know you’re awake.”
His bottom lip trembles.
“How about you sing like a canary for me, hmm?”
“I-I can’t,” he pleads. “Look, I’m rich!” When I get to my feet and stroll over to him, he falters. Tension slams into his muscles. “P-Please, let me p—”
I don’t let him finish the sentence.
I grab his hand and pierce it with my knife.
He screams, roaring in agony as he struggles like a fish on a hook. Taking a step back, I watch as he loses control of his bladder.
“Are you frightened?”
“Yes,” he whines.
“I thought you liked pain.”
“I-I do but not…” He wails as he looks at his hand, the fingers curling as blood pools and falls between them. His gaze trips over the knife and his head rocks like it’s taking everything he has to stay conscious. “You can’t do this to me. Don’t you know who I am?”
Laughter escapes me. “Oh, I know full well who you are. Unfortunately for you, I don’t give a fuck.”
His restraints clatter as he uncovers a new well of strength that swiftly fades as he whimpers. “I’ll give you anything you want! Just let me go.”
Avoiding the puddles of piss and blood, I step closer to him, so close that he can feel my words etch themselves into his skin, until his stench fills my nostrils. “You didn’t think I forgot about the bruises your son left on my woman, did you?”
His eyes widen. So wide it’d be comical in other circumstances. His chest stutters and overly large teardrops fall down his cheeks. “Please, I’m begging you!”
“For more?” I stroke my fingers over the knife’s handle.
“No, no, NO!”
I twist the blade and, over his roar of agony, ruminate, “This is one place consent doesn’t count.”