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

to kill with nothing more than a cock of my eyebrow. But I have to trust—even if it’s hard to believe—that Whelan’s men are equally well-trained.

I glance at Collin. He, too, is watching the windows. Calculating. Deciding the better odds. He has to see right now every detail favors me, and it’s in his organization’s best interest that we work out a peace between us.

I take my .45—it’s gold-plated, one I only use when I need the good luck associated with it—and set it on the table in between us as I look at him. “The time has come to discuss our futures, Irishman. We have to work this out fast. Let’s talk while we still can.”

Ten minutes later, Collin’s hands are still zip tied, but he’s standing beside me. There are ten guns pointed in his direction. Nine of them belong to Irishmen because he’s standing next to me. Yelisey is standing behind Collin. He holds the tenth gun, jammed against the back of Collin’s head. Another ten are aimed either me at or at Jack Whelan’s SUV, which is still sitting, windows blacked out, motor running.

The number of firearms aimed at that car means there are too many guns pointed in Charlotte’s direction. I don’t like it, but there isn’t a fucking thing I can do about it right now.

Three of the four vehicles that pulled in emptied before I ever came outside and I watched from the window. It was like the emptying of the clown car on cartoons but with ten or so redheaded Irish mobsters in their black suits and black-rimmed sunglasses climbing out. Even the Italians don’t take their dark colors so seriously.

I sigh. No matter what I do, this isn’t going to end well unless I take control and assert my power right now. To do that, I have to fire the first shot, make the first kill, and trust that I can get Charlotte out before Whelan goes after her.

I don’t have that kind of trust yet. I need to assess the situation first.

I pull Collin in front of me and smash the muzzle of my Ruger against his temple. Though we have worked out a truce, I don’t trust him completely, but we also have to make this look real for the benefit of both sides. “Remember our deal?”

He nods. “Yes.” If this works out like we planned, there’s a new Irishman in charge of their Mafia. If it fails or if he double-crosses me …

“Don’t forget it.” As we move forward, I have no choice but to trust him because right now, I need him to make sure Charlotte remains unharmed.

“Come out, Whelan, so we can get this done!” I call. “Or I’m painting the concrete with Junior’s blood and brains.” I’m almost ready to yell again when the back door to the Escalade opens and the man himself steps out. After a few seconds of staring at Collin, he reaches inside the vehicle to yank Charlotte out.

Her hair is disheveled, and her face is bloody from a cut over her left eye that’s about three inches long and wide enough she should’ve gotten stitches and antibiotics. Her once-white shirt is torn at the shoulder, and her black skirt is split at the seam from her knee almost to her hip with intermittent scuffs of grime along the lines of the fabric.

Now that I know they’ve laid a hand on her, any deal I’ve made with Collin is off. Even though it isn’t his honor in question, I can’t let Jack Whelan get by with what he’s done.

Charlotte is gagged and bound with a rope around her throat. He’s leashed her like a fucking dog. As if he can read the rage in my face, Jack Whelan yells out, taunting, “You dare threaten my son while I’m holding your pregnant whore?”

Pregnant? This is a ploy. Charlotte would’ve told me. And if there was a way she could benefit from it monetarily, her mother certainly would have. I don’t buy his ruse for a second.

But because I don’t know for certain, I can’t take a chance if he might be telling the truth. It doesn’t matter if she is or isn’t. I love her anyway.

“Do you want your son back or do you want to stand here and flap your jaws?”

In my life, I’ve never used the words “flap your jaws.” I don’t even like the cartoonish visual the phrase inspires, but I’m flustered because he’s dropped this bombshell about Charlotte. She’s standing only a few feet away. Now, even more than a few minutes ago, I need her back safely. She needs medical attention and all the comfort I can offer.

Whelan the elder stands straighter, using the rope around her neck, twisting it around his hand to yank Charlotte in front of him again. She’s his human shield and he knows it. No way am I going to be able to get a clean shot without risking Charlotte’s safety. If I signal to one of my men to shoot Whelan in the back, it could go through him and straight into her.

I can’t take that chance.

The order has been given not to risk Charlotte and to wait for my order before shooting. I know my men will obey but I can’t control Whelan’s troops. Shifty bastards. I do a head count. There are nineteen Irish thugs, excluding the Whelan father and son. I have another twenty-two, not counting myself or Yelisey. That is a lot of shooting and opportunity for stray bullets to find Charlotte.

Blyad.

“You’re either very brave or very stupid.” His laugh is laced with contempt. “Or maybe this isn’t the woman you care for. Maybe she was an easy whore who spread her legs—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence as I snatch a second gun from my belt and aim it at him. One thing I’m known for is my ability to shoot the wings off a fly at eighty paces. I pull back the hammer and