Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Tapping his finger on the arm of the leather chair, Dad looked unseeingly down at the coffee table for a moment, and then raised his eyes to squint at Makar.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, there’s recently been a spate of murders. Members of the Road Kings MC and my Bratva skinned, with messages carved into them.”
Nodding, the man still tried to look as confused as possible. “Of course, I know about them. Otis was a dear friend, and his death was a tragedy.”
“That it was,” Dad murmured. “As is the death of the three men that have just been discovered. Two of mine, and one of yours.”
“One of mine? Who?”
Looking over at Dmitri, I shared a look with him that conveyed what our expressions didn’t—genuine confusion. Why would someone kill a member of the Azarov Bratva?
“I’m surprised you haven’t been informed by your men yet. After all, as Pakhan, you should have the finger on the pulse of your family, no?”
“What are you implying?” Azarov asked, practically spitting the words out.
“Oh, I’m not implying anything,” Dad said, waving a hand through the air. “I’m merely giving you some advice.
“You see, it pays to have your finger on the pulse of not only your Bratva, but also on what is happening around you. For example, I have reason to suspect that Ribeiro and Los Segadores are responsible for what’s happening, so I have a finger on those two pulses.
“I also have reason to suspect that they have inside assistance, so I put a finger on that pulse, too. Bog blessed me with many fingers, Makar,” he wiggled his fingers for emphasis. “I can take many pulses.”
Makar Azarov was well known for being many things. Ruthless, both in business and with his enemies, arrogant, self-serving, a liar, a cheater, and a cock sucking son of a bitch. That’s why his reaction to Dad’s words didn’t surprise any of us.
Watching Dad dispassionately, Makar smirked. “It is the way of our world, Bogdan. To focus on one area leaves us open to all of the others, and that’s what leads to someone shooting us in our backs.”
Wearing the same expression and using the same tone of voice, Dad smoothly replied, “Only the weak would shoot a man in his back. A true man, worth even an ounce of respect, fights an equal battle.”
His point was clear—if you intend to challenge me, you do it like a real man to my face, and don’t try to kill me while my back’s turned like a coward. The implication hung heavily that he wasn’t a real man worthy of respect—which he wasn’t.
Makar’s eyes flared slightly at this, but he said nothing.
“You may leave now.” Dad looked up at Zoran, making it clear he was to remove them both if they didn’t go.
“What about our marriage?” Donna argued, crossing her legs in what she must have thought was a sultry move, but just looked like she was a child preparing for another tantrum. “We came here to fix the problems, and I won’t leave until that’s done. I love my husband—”
Dmitri snorted quietly beside me, and I was struggling not to do the same thing.
“Ms. Azarov,” Dad started, stressing the word Ms., and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the sneer that moved across her face. “I know I don’t need to reiterate the terms the marriage occurred under. However, if you do need them to be repeated, I’m more than willing to do so.”
Donna sucked in a breath like she was about to argue back, but her father made the smartest decision he’d made today.
“Zamolchi,” he growled, and it was clear from the way she looked sharply at him that she’d never been told to shut up a day in her life.
Get used to it.
Glancing briefly at me, Dad’s right eye twitched slightly. “Taras has kept me updated from the beginning of this as to whatever agreements you came to, and I fail to see why you have a problem with them right now.”
Unable to abide by the order from her father, Donna hissed, “The problem is that we should be together. We should be in the same bed. Our families need an heir—”
“As I understand it, your brother is the heir to the Azarov Bratva,” I interrupted her with a point that she hated. “He runs it in Russia, and is more successful than your father is. His choices are wise, and he’s a great Pakhan. Any heirs to your line will come from him, not from you, as you well know.”
Before she could fire back anything at me, Makar stood, yanking her arm to do the same thing. “We’ll be going.”
Not offering him a hand, we all remained in our seats, a sign that our respect for him had fallen.
“I would suggest you do so quickly,” Dad murmured, his eyes on the still smoking cigar in the ashtray on the table.