Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (open ebook .TXT) 📗

shows me he is worried. Scared. Maybe because the cartel is leaning on the Irish, or one of the other players in the city.

I don’t know. Don’t care.

Because Jack Whelan is not the only one holding a trump card now.

I am sitting next to Collin Whelan, watching him look at the screen, knowing his father is responsible for what happened and what is happening to Charlotte. My sweet Charlotte.

Because he’s grown up in this life the same as I have, Collin knows that whatever happens to Charlotte is going to happen to him. Admirably, he’s calm, not a bit outwardly nervous, even though he’s in a room with a man who has the power and the inclination to order his death. Collin is sturdier stock than his father.

When I first ran up against his father in a similar situation, I was young. Still thinking I could change the way we operated, find a way to work alongside the Irish and bring our operations forward into this century.

Back then, Jack bargained, begged, made promises too big to keep.

I should’ve ended this then, worked out my own deal and decided if forfeiting his life was adequate payment for his transgressions. But I let my compassion for a man fading from his prime override my common sense.

As much as I like the son, I won’t make that mistake again.

“She doesn’t look very sincere with that statement. If you ask me.” I didn’t, but these Irishmen apparently love to hear themselves talk. Or at least this one does. He has an opinion or a comment about everything. “I wouldn’t believe it.”

He’s tied to a chair, and Yelisey is standing over him with a Glock close enough to turn his skull inside out, and still Collin is calm. But it won’t save his life. I know Charlotte well enough to know these aren’t her words and she didn’t make this confession willingly. I damn sure don’t need one of her captor’s immediate family members to tell me about her.

“I don’t believe it.”

Maybe I need someone to drill into my mind the things about her that I judged incorrectly. Like her capacity for deception. Or betrayal. Or disloyalty. She’s innocent of all of it and there’s no doubt in my mind that everything that happened is my own fault. Mine and her mother’s. But I can’t worry about punishing either one of us right now.

I also don’t want Collin Whelan to mistake this as a friendly conversation. If something happens to Charlotte, I will kill him. He would be wise not to forget that.

“She seems tough. Not the kind of woman who can be put down by a stupid plan orchestrated by an old man who spends his time underestimating the strength of those around him.” There’s a hint of bitterness, a twinge of treachery in his tone, a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

He’s staring, measuring my response. So, he’s either a very good actor or it’s a prime time to establish a new relationship with the Irish. To see if I can make use of the trouble in the Irish camp.

This is either a rebellion of son against father or a ploy to get me to lower my guard. My gut says it’s rebellion. But either way, right or wrong, it doesn’t matter because, if I somehow falter, Yelisey is an ask-forgiveness, not an ask-permission soldier. If I can’t take the shot, he will. He’ll shoot even if I don’t give the order.

The only thing that will keep his gun from firing today is a direct command from me telling him to put it down. There’s a certain confidence that imparts, and it relieves the pressure.

I’ve been sitting inside this damn building for three hours. Waiting. Planning. After they crawl out of the vehicles, I watch his men take their places outside, hiding behind bushes, in trees, under vehicles. I watch them check their weapons again and again, as if unsure they’ve prepared adequately for whatever is about to happen.

They’ve shown their weakness, a fear, and it’s a mistake my men would never make if they wanted to continue to be my men.

Whelan’s squadron has set up under cover of the fading sun. My crew has been in place for hours, holding the line since I assigned their places, places selected to secure the perimeter and protect us from outsider interference or collateral damage within the area. Last thing I need is a report of another shoot-out or attack.

Collin is watching me watch the windows now. I walk from one side of the room to the other, checking. I could stand in one spot and see both, but the walking helps me. It keeps me centered, gives me a purpose. It also keeps me from thinking too often about Charlotte.

Thinking of her—picturing her in my mind with her hair spread over my pillow and her eyes sparkling with passion—will only cause me to lose focus when I should be thinking three moves ahead of what Jack Whelan will do. He’s not a strategic genius. There’s nothing Napoleonic about him except his height and his insecurities about it. But I started studying strategy at the same time I learned the alphabet. I won’t be caught off guard or surprised. Not by someone as insignificant as Jack Whelan.

Collin Whelan isn’t a lot younger than I am. He’s a little greener than I was at his age, but perfectly capable of making decisions. That’s why I send my men out of the room.

Today, I’ll fire my own shots if necessary.

The building’s surrounded. It’s a one-story former church with an equally short building on each side I’ve made use of, and a high chain-link fence with the green plastic pieces woven through the links. Whelan men have blocked the exits and have taken aim at the building and my men—the ones on the ground and the rooftops of the adjacent properties.

As I expected nothing less, now they’re surrounded by fifteen Russians with automatic rifles. Men who will shoot