Page 24 of Tormented Heir

We do a delicate dance with the Athenian group headed by Stamatis Kantos. We avoid running into one another or treading on one another’s toes. It’s like two nuclear armed states facing off. There are rules to the game we play, but that doesn’t mean one side won’t break them.

“No, son, they don’t want that. Stamatis is moving to being entirely legitimate, and he’s currently being groomed for high office.” Jacob rubs the back of his neck, the twitch in his right eye noticeable. A sure sign he’s stressed and pissed.

“Politics?” I raise one brow.

“Yes. Greek politics is messy as you know, and there are people who would very much like him to be in a future conservative government.”

“Okay.”

“So, you see, he doesn’t want to sell more arms here. Plus, his son-in-law, Damen, is very close friends with Konstantin Silvanov.”

I know that name. Anyone from our world does. He’s retired from this life now, though.

“One of Konstantin’s men is an ex-US Navy SEAL. A man named John, and he’s in love with Roze Muka. Gezim Muka’s daughter. It seems the men who have Mila have also been talking about Roze, and the Corfu contingent doesn’t like this. The help and the intel are very much legitimate. Our discussion was set up by Ilya from St. Petersburg.”

Ilya, I do know. We’ve carried out some deals together in the past before Russia closed her borders to so many. If they all say this intel is strong, then we must believe it is so. I look out the window as two armed men pass by on rotation, followed by a third, with a Belgian Malinois pulling at the leash. “Do we have an idea of how many men they have?”

“No. We will, though.” He smiles, and despite being worn and tired, it creases the corners of his eyes into a web of lines. “They’ve ordered champagne, caviar, and oysters to be delivered to the yacht tomorrow night, and I’ve ensured the delivery will be made by Katya.”

I smirk. “She’ll get all the information we need back to us.” What kind of idiots kidnap the daughter of a senior member of the Bratva and then decide that the place to hide is on a fucking yacht? In the bay. Like sitting ducks. Fucking assholes.

Katya isn’t part of our family, or our group, but she’s worked with us for many years. She provides the finest, most exquisite caviar and champagne to the elites of the bay area, and she is always happy to tell us who is ordering what, who is meeting where, and who is spending a fuck ton of money.

“I’ve told her to gather as much information as she can.” Jacob leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers, tapping them on his chin as he thinks.

“Once we know how many men there are, then we can come up with a plan,” I say.

“Yes, and you will have all the people as you need. This time, I will not show any mercy.”

He shakes his head. “You were right when you counseled me not to leave any of those men alive, Dimitri. You’re an excellent enforcer, and you keep our family safe, but you’re much more than that. You have an analytical mind, and you understand warfare in a way that I don’t. I should listen to you more.”

I brush off his words with a shake of my head, but we both know he should have taken my advice. We also know I respect him far too much to verbalize it.

“This time I won’t make any such mistake. You take the yacht as yours. And when we’ve returned Mila to her family, we will exact a terrible vengeance on any of the gang that remains. We will take their empire and dismantle it. We’ll keep their money, give the women they traffic their freedom, and take over all their real estate. Everything they touch will be either ours, set free, or burned to the ground.”

“Of course. I will make it so.”

“Live on the yacht for a while too. Ostentatiously.”

“You want me to live on the yacht?” Christ, I don’t know if that will be as fun as it perhaps sounds. Not in the bay. It can get fucking cold.

“For a short while. Post some pictures of you and the men on there, drinking their champagne, screwing their women, eating their food. Post it on Instagram for all I care. I want their end to be public and humiliating.”

“I can’t make it too public, can I? I’d end up in prison.”

“No. You won’t. The authorities want them gone. They might not like us, but they hate them. They hate the fact they’re moving women and fentanyl, and if we stop them, we’ve saved the Feds a massive headache. It would be years of meticulous work for them, whereas for us, we can simply go in there and shoot the little shits. No one is going to care.”

“Fine. I’ll take the yacht. I’m not fucking posting it on Instagram, though. As for the women, I’ll let them go. You said they’re trafficked, no?” I’ve done many things during my time as Jacob’s enforcer. Crossed lines I never thought I would. Hell, I erased them completely. But this I won’t do.

“Some, but these men do have girlfriends. Make them yours for a while. Or our mens’, at least, particularly the leader’s girls. Dorian, he’s called. You take his woman, or women, who the fuck knows, and parade them around on that yacht as yours. You hear me?”

“Like a Viking, pillaging with the best of them?” I frown, not liking where this is going.

“Yes, like a fucking Viking.” He bangs his fist on the table to emphasize his words.

This is not like him. He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen. My stepfather is as cold as ice, except for when it comes to my mother. He makes decisions with a steely calm, rational mind, not this anger he is seething with now.

“I’m not screwing Dorian’s girlfriend,” I say firmly.

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