Page 25 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Kostin

Iwake up to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand beside me. I wasn’t expecting any calls, which is never a good sign. Either it’s my brother checking in from his vacation, or it’s something much worse.

I have the phone to my ear before my eyes even open, croaking a hasty hello as I sit up.

“Sir, we have a situation,” a gruff voice, that I recognize as belonging to Vladimir, says.

“It had better be a good one,” I reply, pressing my fingers hard into my eyes.

“Unfortunately, not. The club owner, Jerry Spade owed money to the 37th Street Bratva.”

“And?”

“And since they can’t collect it from him, they want it from you.”

I laugh. “How much?” I ask, thinking I could probably just sell the club and pay them with the proceeds, with cash to spare.

“Twenty-eight million dollars, sir,” Vladimir answers, without missing a beat.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. I kick the sheets away from me, clambering out of bed as quickly as I can. An emergency is a hell of a way to wake up in the morning, and it’s much more stimulating than a cup of coffee.

“The club is cleaned up, and we have the girls notified of the new club ownership,” Vladimir continues.

“Fuck the club,” I reply. “That shithole is closing down permanently. We have bigger issues to worry about.”

“The 37th Street Bratva don’t fuck around,” he says, his voice hinting at worry.

“They certainly don’t,” I mutter. “But we’re not going to get our panties in a twist about it. We’ve dealt with them before.”

“Which means they know about the office in Texas.”

I groan. “Yes, that’s right. I’m getting the fuck out of here. We’ll talk later. I have a woman to kick out of bed and I need a fucking cigar.”

“Yes, sir.”

I hang up the phone and throw it back onto the bed, quickly clambering into a pair of black slacks and a white formal shirt. It’s crisp from the cleaners, starched to high hell - just how I like them. A lot of men don’t wear their shirts starched these days, but I’m not savvy with limp collars. It’s indicative of limpness in other areas.

The pear buttons slide into place quickly, and I manage to throw a gun into my holster before there’s a knock on the door.

“Who’s there?” I bark, thumbing the textured grip of my .45.

“It’s Bonnie,” a small voice says, from the other side of the dense oak.

I barge toward the door, shaking my head and wondering how the fuck she managed to get out of her room. I know I locked the door.

I nearly tear the door from its hinges as I open it, and Bonnies absolutely terrified when I appear in front of her wearing a deep scowl. “What the hell is going on here?” I growl.

“I was thirsty, and I didn’t want to drink the bathroom sink water, so I had to go to the kitchen.”

“How’d you get out?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

She shrugs. “There was a screwdriver in the room.”

“I swear to god, Bonnie, if you took that door off its hinges –”

“I took the door off the hinges,” she replies flatly. “It was the only way to get out. Plus, you were making an awful racket in here, so I came to see what the matter was.”

“A lot of things are the matter,” I snap. “And you’re not making them better.”

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