Chapter 1
Chapter One
Kirill
My bullet, as usual, makes precise contact with my target.
The problem it, it’s the last one in the clip, and I need some more space between myself and my encroaching counterparts before I can exchange the magazine.
I turn on my heel as I use the back of my hand holding my gun to wipe the sweat off my black brow, and take off at a run again.
“He got Krofksy!” one of the men chasing me yells.
“I don’t give a shit, get him!” another hollers angrily.
I am Kirill Pavlovich Bognanov, the Pakhan of the New York Russian Mafia, and even though I’ve just been set up to be killed, I smile devilishly as I continue to run.
I wish I could say that this type of chase was something new, but it isn’t.
Betrayal is something the families are used to.
There is always someone who thinks they could do a better job.
Always someone who felt the deserved to be on top.
Another bullet whizzes by, this time so close it stings the edge of my earlobe and slices through a few strands of my black hair.
My smile slides into a grimace. I know I can’t waste any more time.
Chest heaving for breath beneath my fine designer black-on-black suit, muscular legs pumping to keep me going, I think for a moment as I drop the empty magazine clip into my free hand, pocket it, and slug the fresh one, that perhaps at the age of 35, I'm getting too old to be running away from trouble like this. Then again, was there really such thing as an appropriate age for a man who ran the entire city’s Russian mob?
I cock my Glock just as I turn around and fire off four more rounds. I curse again when only two of my bullets kill, one wounds, and the other misses entirely. I was growing too tired, my accuracy was waning, and I need to disappear from this chase. Soon.
Reaching the end of the alleyway, I veer sharply to the left and onto the busy main street. My shoulder inadvertently glances into a middle-aged man as I run, nearly knocking him to the ground.
“Hey!” the man shouts, stumbling, “Watch it! Whaddaya think ya-”
I turn back to the man, my cold blue eyes blazing with warning as I bare his teeth. The older business man with a balding head freezes, his eyes going wide, and he raises his hands.
“My mistake,” the man states, then takes a step backward.
“Damn right,” I snarl. Still, I draw out a wad of twenties and toss them at the man’s chest. “Anybody asks you, I went the other way.”
The man catches the cash as it hits his chest. He nods vehemently, pocketing his handsome reward, and I move to blend in with the crowd of people surrounding me.
Now able to catch my breath, I thrust a hand through my sweat-slicked, ear-length black hair, and straighten my jacket.
I keep my eyes peeled, looking for his next strategy.
There’s no way in hell I’m going to lose those men this easily.
A smirk spreads across my sculpted jaw when I see my opportunity for a clean exit via a yellow cab parked across the street with its TAXI light turned off.
Not waiting for the crosswalk up ahead, I sprint into the heavy New York traffic, dodging cars nearly invisibly in my black suit, until I make it to the yellow cab.
“Buddy, come on!” the middle-aged, overweight cabby complains as I slide into the front passenger seat. “My light’s off. I’m done for the night.”
“Yes you are,” I agree, pulling out my Glock and aiming it at the man’s head. “But unfortunately I am not.”
The cabby inspects me with surprising calm for a moment, then shrugs as he opens his driver’s side door.
“I don’t get paid enough for this,” the man grumbles, “Take it.”
Now, though I might be a mafia boss with over 300 hits under my personal belt, that doesn't necessarily mean I have a heart of stone. I just stole this man’s income, and that isn’t very polite.
So as I slide into the driver’s seat, I pull out another wad of cash and toss it to the cabby.
The man is right after all. He probably didn’t get paid enough.
“Spacibo,” I say with a smirk, and slam the driver’s side door shut.
I throw the car into drive and am just about to take pull into traffic when the back door opens and a woman all but pours herself into the back seat.
“The Four Seasons Hotel, please,” she slurs slightly.
“Sukin Syn,” I mutter, and, not having time to be polite, even for the rather pretty young woman who’d just gotten into my car, I shout, “Get out!”
The young woman, who barely looked as if she were able to keep herself upright only a moment ago, sits up straight as her vivid blue eyes flash in the rearview mirror along with the most stubborn stare I have ever seen in my life.
“I’m neither a son or a bitch,” she replies, “And I don’t care how grumpy you are! You are taking me to my hotel NOW!”
For the first time in a very long time, surprise floods through me, and I actually take a precious moment to look back at her.
Damn, I think, she’s hotter than I thought.