Page 27 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Kostin

“Into the Mustang, darling,” I say, opening the door to the sunflower-yellow convertible that I like to drive around - when I’m not trying to evade the 37th Street Bratva. Those fuckers are trouble on trouble, but I don’t want them to fuck up my car if they attempt a raid on the Texas headquarters. I’d like to keep this baby in one piece.

Bonnie slides into her seat, bright white jean shorts pressing down into the smooth leather. It’s a beautiful sight to behold, and I have to stop to admire the curves on Bonnie before I remember what we’re doing. I can’t waste time like this.

I hop into my seat, pulling out my phone and dialing Vladimir again to let him know I’m leaving the Texas office and heading to California. I’d like for him to meet me there, so that we can discuss what we’re doing about the 37th Street Bratva. We can’t just let them run around, shooting up places where they think I might be dwelling. Even if it means waging war, I’m not going to let anyone disrespect my Mafia Family.

Bonnie chose to leave what little she brought with her from the club at the headquarters, despite my warning that we probably won’t be back any time soon. I don’t need to be in Texas, as it’s the secondary headquarters and not the primary one, but Bonnie doesn’t seem to care about anything, aside from stopping for tampons.

Women.

I turn on the cold air, trying to flush out the heat from the car as the top comes down. It’s like an oven in here and wearing a suit in the middle of summer isn’t always the best idea. It breathes, but I still sweat like a sinner in hell.

Sometimes, I think I’m already in hell, and there’s no doubt in my mind that I’m a sinner. I once had a priest kick me out of a church, without even knowing who I am. He just didn’t like my vibe, but Russia is different than the United States. They’re not as friendly over there.

“Is that beer, I smell?” I ask, picking up a strange scent from Bonnie as I start the car.

“You’ve never had a beer mimosa?” she asks with a chuckle.

“Damn,” I say, shaking my head as I shift the car into gear. “You’re full of surprises.”

“I figure I need to be, since you are too,” she replies.

“Well, I prefer not to drink in the morning. I will have a cigar, once we stop, though.”

“At the store,” she says, her voice rising with her words.

“Yes, ma’am,” I chirp, mimicking the southern people I’ve been exposed to in Texas. They’re a cute bunch, but they always get so nervous when I start speaking with my Russian accent. I tell them I’m a hitman, but it’s not really a joke. I’ve killed more people than I can count.

“Where are we going, anyway?” she asks, her mood much better than I thought it would be this morning.

She’s changed from last night, but a morning drink will do that to you. I used to slam whiskey every morning before I realized that it was becoming a problem. I’ve since toned it down. I’m not as young and elastic as I used to be.

“We’re heading out to California,” I say, turning the vent toward me. The cold air washes over my face like the blast of a shower head. “It’s nicer there. Not as hot.”

“Is that why you’re in such a hurry? You’re scared of the heat?” she asks doubtfully.

“It’s really none of your business why we’re leaving,” I reply, hoping that my sharpness will shut her up. I need time to think, not respond to her questions. I barely know the answers myself.

“You’re grumpier in the morning,” she says, pulling down the mirror to check her face. I notice that she’s wearing makeup. She can pretend to be offended by me all she likes, but I know when a woman is into me.

“I’m not grumpy,” I grumble, realizing how obvious it is that I’m not telling the truth. Anyone else would be terrified, if the 37th Street Bratva had their scent. She’s lucky that I’m only grumpy..

I fall silent, letting her fiddle with her makeup while I drive us away from the city. I’m not interested in conversation right now. I’m more focused on deciding what I’m going to do about our little Bratva problem.

I’ve dealt with these guys in the past but getting violent will only start an irreversible war between people who once considered themselves to be on the same side. Brothers turn to sworn enemies fast when there’s money involved. I’m just glad that my blood-brother never succumbed to such greed.

The 37th Street Bratva, on the other hand, are a nasty bunch. I’ve seen them saw people’s arms and legs off and hang their torso on a hook outside their wife’s residence, for failing to pay up. I’m surprised Jerry was able to get into that much debt with them without meeting the same fate. Maybe they thought he still had the money somewhere, or that his club was worth more than it actually was.

I pause, my mind ticking through the options. Perhaps Jerry did have the money tucked away somewhere. Maybe he wasn’t even afraid of losing the club because he had so much. That would explain his eagerness to bet it for cash last night.

It seems that I have a bit more research to do, if that’s the case. I need to turn the club upside down, and then his house as well, if I’m going to find out for sure whether he still had the money he owed.

This does make me feel less guilty about killing him. He was a dead man walking already. I’m just the guy who pulled the trigger.

“Hey, you passed the drugstore,” Bonnie says, breaking me out of my thoughts.

I look over at her to find her leaning into the window, her little nose smudging the glass as her fingers hook into the top. The wind blows her blonde hair into a mess, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She looks good, no matter what, I’ve discovered.

“I’ll stop at the next one,” I promise. I consider not stopping at all, if it means risking a drive-by and a closed casket funeral, but Bonnie has been patient enough, and I’m not the type of man to deny a woman what she needs. Mafia men have honor.

“Okay, stopping here,” I say, as a dingy corner store comes into view. It’s not much, but it’ll have what she needs.

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