Page 4 of Forced By the Bratva King

“It seems like someone is trying to hack our systems,” he said. “They’re doing a great job in their attempts, according to Donald, but our team is strong enough to resist.”

I exhaled softly, my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose.

As thePakhanof the Tarasov Bratva, I had a lot of enemies, known and unknown. This was a fact. Some even disguised themselves as friends, but I wasn’t stupid; I knew my allies, and I knew my foes. Years of experience had taught me that.

Despite my many enemies, I knew that this cyberattack could only be from one group in particular.

“It’s the Irish,” Kostya said as though reading my mind. “It’s them. I’m sure.”

I stole a glance at Yuri, and he nodded in affirmation as if he could hear the conversation with my brother. I wasn’t surprised. One of Yuri’s unique abilities was his wolf-like hearing. It was like a superpower he possessed.

Both my brother and Yuri were right in their assumptions, considering the feud between the Tarasov Bratva and the Irish mob. Those fuckers were a force to be reckoned with. Despite the number of lives wasted on both sides of this war, neither was ready to back down.

The Tarasov Bratva, regardless of how ruthless we were, never started a fight—not without good reason. As an organization, we liked to mind our business and never went looking for trouble. However, when troubledidcome around, we always fought back without second thoughts.

The Irish mob, headed by Niall Donovan, a cold-blooded killer with a knack for causing trouble, was known for always leaving death and destruction in its wake. They were a pack of mindless beasts with an equally mindless leader who always saw everything as a competition to be won.

They started this fight, and it didn’t matter how long they’d stretch it out; we were more than ready to see it through to the end.

Three years ago, Niall’s right-hand man had crossed me; he targeted our high-profile clients and had them assassinated. I found out about what he’d done and decided to pay the bastard a visit, and they never found his body. I made sure of that because he was dinner for my hounds.

Niall had gotten word that the Tarasov Bratva was involved in the death of his right-hand man, and ever since then, we’d been at war.

“Give the order, and we’ll retaliate,” Kostya said.

I could tell that he was pissed and was prepared to take immediate action, but now wasn't the time. The reason I had managed to keep the Irish on their toes, frustrated and angry, was because I was usually two steps ahead every goddamn time. They never knew my next move, but I could accurately predict theirs. To beat my enemies at their own game, I had to study them like a book, learn about them, and, at the same time, maintain my calmness.

They were beasts, and if I had any chance at taming them, it was not by being as mindless as they were.

“Stand down, brother,” I said.

“But they’re messing with us,” he retorted, trying to make me see why we should be on the offensive.

“Yes, they are,” I replied. “But in battles like this, patience is a formidable weapon. It’s slow but resourceful, and I intend to use it.”

He sighed, coming to terms with my decision. “I trust you.”

“Good,” I said, ending the call.

“Your approach to the situation with the Irish is remarkable,” Yuri said, shooting me a glance. “I don’t think I have your kind of patience,” he confessed, eyes on the road. “These bastards are like pests, and sometimes, I think we should just give them a taste of their medicine.”

I scoffed. “If we do that, then we’re no different from them.”

“You’re right,” he conceded. “They’re trying to hack our database because we know a lot about them, and they know virtually nothing about us.” He looked at me. “They’re frustrated.”

“Indeed. And a frustrated man you can always trust to flop, to make a mistake.” I paused for a moment, finding solace in the plan I was cooking up. “Theywillflop. And when they do,we’ll strike them where it hurts. Niall Donovan won’t know what hit him. He won’t see it coming.”

Yuri smoothed his blond hair backward with a smirk on the corner of his lips. “Here,” he said, passing me an iPad.

I accepted it and narrowed my eyes at the image of the man on his screen. The camera had captured this gray-haired man dressed in an impeccably tailored brown overcoat as he alighted his white Mercedes Benz. A stick of Cuban cigar was hanging off his lips, and a couple of black-suited men surrounded him.

Nelson McCall: a two-faced, backstabbing politician, greedy and arrogant. Before now, I’d heard about him in the criminal underworld, and all the comments were about his pride and arrogance. His name was mud in the streets, but he didn’t care because he was an elite person in society who was stupid enough to think he was untouchable.

Tonight, he was my target. One of our clients had paid a large sum for us to get him, saying they had an ax to grind with the man. The idiot had put a giant bullseye on his back and had managed to piss off a couple of very powerful people. Now, they wanted him, and I was the one they paid to get him.

“He’s in a high-class nightclub a few more blocks from here,” Yuri said, turning onto another street. “Our man in his security detail is on standby; he’ll notify us when the coast is clear.”

This was something we had that the Irish didn’t: moles scattered everywhere, even in the Irish organization.

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