Page 21 of The Lazarov Bratva

KINGPIN GODFATHER (BOOK 1)

1

KRISTOF

Remember to play nice. You’re no use to anyone if you’re dead.

My sister’s voice drones out from the phone attached to the dashboard, her warning as clear as day. Don’t act out. Keep it together.

“I always play nice.”

Nastja’s laugh rings through the car as I pull off the freeway, and for a second, it brings the ghost of a smile to my own lips.

Kristof, you’re as nice as a hornet’s nest on a hot summer day. She sighs deeply and clicks her tongue. Call me after?

“Sure.”

She hangs up, and the car plunges into complete darkness, leaving me to my thoughts as I weave toward the Orlova mansion.

The Orlovas are the top family in the Russian Mafia, headed by my boss and friend, Aleksander. The term friend hangs by a thread now, though. For the past year, I’ve been holding this family together with the blood, sweat, and tears of my own people, and my patience is running thin.

Killing the Petrov family last year was meant to send a message. A message that any betrayal with the Orlova family would result in deadly punishment, but Aleksander waited too long to issue that command, and the Irish have grown bold. At a glance, the Petrov family were simply greedy, but losing them without a replacement lined up weakened our control of the docks. The territory war between us and the Irish has been increasingly bloody.

So far, we’re winning.

A fact I’d be prouder of if Aleksander actually had my back. I’ve poured my soul into countless plans to push the Irish back for good, plans for one big act that would fully secure us on top and make the Irish far too scared to even think about pressing us for the territory.

Aleksander, for whatever reason, refuses to commit. Instead, when I’m not here fighting to keep our thinning family alive, I’m in Russia, sweet-talking the Nikolaev family to persuade them to come over here and rule the docks for us. A prospect that sours by the day with the amount of bloodshed spilling into the water.

The car pulls slightly to the left as my mind wanders, anger dripping through me like molten metal. Each month spent in Russia putting the Nikolaevs through their loyalty testing has worn my own loyalty thin. A closely-guarded secret I’ve shared only with my brother and sister. I’m tired. I’m strained and worn thin fighting for a family that continues to stall for reasons I’m not privy to.

When I’m not fighting or traveling, Aleksander calls me to his manor for discussions I don’t have time for, but I don’t dig my heels for these. Visiting the Orlova Estate has one quiet benefit that I can’t get anywhere else.

Alena Orlova, my goddaughter.

A rose among dying thorns.

A beautiful, sheltered girl who continues to blossom, who has consumed my thoughts like an addiction ever since I stole her first kiss on her eighteenth birthday nearly a year ago. A kiss I cling to, a kiss that will never repeat since her father, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to marry her off to the sadistic Kuznetsovs. Just the thought of Mikhail churns my stomach.

The silver lining to the territorial disputes and the war with the Irish has been the constant delays to the Wedding. Each night, I entertain the fantasy of gaining enough power to earn the respect I deserve from Aleksander, and Alena’s hand.

Aleksander would surely kill me before that happens, but the thought of her warms my cold soul as I drive through the teetering wrought-iron gates of the Orlova estate.

The Orlova manor looms before me, a straight-cut stone building stretching into the night sky like a marble hand clawing skyward. Rows upon rows of tall windows light up gold and flicker past my eyes as I drive, the stream of light broken by tall cypress trees that line the driveway. Guards patrol the outskirts of the property, from the gate all the way out to the vast garden that is swallowed by the darkness.

Somewhere beyond that shadow is the Gazebo where I stole Alena’s kiss.

Gravel crunches under the tires as I pull to a stop and force a deep, calming breath. I have to focus.

Such words are useless because as soon as I step over the threshold and brush off the greeting from the guard, my thoughts instantly turn to Alena. I haven’t been here in months, and they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. In my case, it’s smothering. Each call from home brought the risk that the wedding was rushed and I’d lost Alena to the Kuznetsovs. Each visit brought the chance that it was my last time to see her.

She’s not even mine to lose, and yet I crave her presence more than air. She should be mine. For the blood I spill for this family, I deserve her.

“Kristof!” Aleksander’s booming voice floats down the hallway, and he emerges from behind a carved bronze statue with a cigar in hand. His portly figure has grown since the last time we saw each other, and his smile is as tight as always. Years ago, we had our differences, but he earned my loyalty over time.

Loyalty that teeters as the blood of my men spills across the docks while he sits in his manor, growing his waistline.

“Aleksander.” My true feelings remain behind a mask as I stride across Persian rugs and greet him with a smile and a strong hug.

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