Then nothing. More silence.
He’s dead.
My father’s death means I am the Bratva boss now. That means it falls to me to avenge this murder.
I take out my cell and dial the number I’ve been dialing for days.
It rings twice, then Alek finally answers. “Tomas. I can explain.”
No, he can’t. Nothing he can say is or will be enough. He killed my father. The man who took him and treated him like a son. The man who would’ve died to defend him.
“Shut the fuck up and listen to me,” I rasp. “I’m going to end you. Do you understand me, you son of a bitch?”
When I find him, it will be me who watches the life drain from his eyes. Who leaves his body to rot or maybe sends pieces to his family, torturing them the way he decided to torture me.
“They know about Asha.”
His voice is soft. Defeated. “And now you have to kill me. I know. But they know about Asha.” He repeats the words as if he’s the one who needs to hear them.
Asha is his daughter, a four-year-old who thankfully looks like her mother—blonde and blue eyed, as American as they come. His wife took the girl when she left him. Alek hasn’t visited her to keep her safe—for her own protection, since the Italians have eyes everywhere.
But he sends money. That must be how Roberto Totti and the Italians tracked her back to him. Had he not shot my father, I would have helped him protect her, but he never even came to me.
He hid. He lied. He shot my fucking father instead.
He coughs. I can’t tell if he’s hurt or just sick at the thought of what he’s done. “You’re my friend, Tomas, always, and … I need you to know … the Kuznetsovs have joined with Totti to defeat you. This was the first step. You shouldn’t have humiliated Katerina. Her family.”
Each of his words thuds in my chest like a bullet. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’ll kill them all myself. One at a time. Ten at a time. It doesn’t matter. They’ll all die. But I need to know what they know. What Alek knows about their plans.
“How? What are they going to do? Give me something, goddammit!”
“I’m sorry, Tomas.” The line goes dead.
It would be so easy to act on the passion of the moment. To throw my phone, tear the room apart. But along with how to take a kill shot blind, I also was trained on how to close down, think, act beyond my feelings.
My father is a man who would never let the police into this place, a man who believes—believed—in the sanctity of our business. Who knew some secrets are meant to remain and who trusted I would care for the details that keep us safe as Russian Bratva.
I carry his body to the outer office and put him at the desk. Then I use a towel to wipe the blood trail that leads to the steel door and replace the wall panel over the sensor after I secure the room.
I don’t have a choice but to leave him there for the time being.
As soon as I’m on the street, in my car, far enough away I can see the police arrive and the ambulance pull in, I make a call. The first to set in motion a series of events that will cripple Totti’s organization and leave him open to my attack.
That Italian bastard will know my face. It’ll be the last thing he ever sees.
I don’t get to make the second call right away because my phone rings. My gut says bad news.
It’s Demetri, the lieutenant I left in charge of security at Sentinel. “Tomas, all the security alarms for the businesses have been disabled. I’ve been watching monitors, and nothing odd yet except that, but … something’s going on.” He might not be sure, but I know. This isn’t a glitch in a system or a coincidence. Killing my father kicked off whatever this is.
“All the alarms?” Something’s definitely going on. Fucking Aleksey and fucking Roberto Totti. “Alright. Keep watching. Don’t interfere. I’ll call you back.”
After the cyberattacks started, I made damn sure no physical attacks could take place. A little red-button safety switch of my own.
I dial Peyton next because when my gut says this isn’t an accident, I trust it. I also know an operation like this would take someone on the inside. Someone who has access to all of my father’s businesses simultaneously. Through the computer network. The one they designed.
Peyton. Corinne. Leila. All are suspects. But my money’s on him.
His voice instantly confirms my suspicions. “Just the call I’ve been waiting for,” he seethes.
He’s an arrogant bastard. I add him to my mental kill list, picturing him in his office, his thin lips going blue and his scrawny hands scrabbling for purchase as I choke the life out of him. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Or rather, not correctly introduced. My name is Peyton Totti.”
This motherfucking liar.
I get it now. I get all of it. He’s Roberto Totti’s son? Nephew? Close family, anyway. A bastard with spaghetti sauce in his veins and my father’s blood on his hands.
“You, all along.”
He laughs. Smug son of a bitch. “Of course it’s been me all along. You knew it. And then you forgave me, enlisted me for help in exchange for your protection. Gave me access to all your family secrets. You made it so easy to hurt you, Tomas.”
His bragging grates. His voice makes my ears bleed.
“I wanted to make you feel secure. That’s why I let you think I solved your problem. Why I let Corinne believe she found the line of script to turn it all around.” He chuckles. “And you both fell for it.”
“I’m going to kill you slowly,” I snap. I mean it. I’m going to make him beg for his. Bring him to the brink of death. Then let him live and start again.
He laughs. “You’d have to find me. And you’ve already proven you aren’t smart enough to find your own ass if you’re allowed to use both hands. So, pardon me if I’m not exactly shaking in my shoes over your threats.”
“We’ll be seeing each other soon.”
“The question, Tomas, is will you find me before or after I destroy your Bratva?”
I squeeze the phone so tight I think it might shatter. “Listen to me, you Italian fuck. Did you know that the first man I killed, I killed with my bare hands? He lied to my father. I was eighteen. It was a quick thing. I hardly broke a sweat. Yours will last two years and it’s going to fucking hurt.”
This dance with him is complicated, the steps intricate, and we’re each trying to lead the other, but I’m going to win because I’m smarter than he is. Maybe not about computers or technology, but about murder, business, and how to strike fear in the hearts of men who underestimate me.
He laughs. “I guess the race is on then.”
He hangs up.
21
Corinne
My parents’ house is small. It was always just the three of us, so space wasn’t a concern. We had the basics. Living room. Eat-in kitchen. Two bedrooms. A room that would’ve been the dining room, but my mom used it for “crafts” she sold online as a side hustle. My whole life, the dining room table was groaning under the weight of her shakra aligners and jade amulets, her dreamcatchers and energy balancing bracelets.
But today, the table is clear. Leila bursts through the living room to set her laptop down on top of it.