Page 2 of The Councilor

“You should try it. Why not buy a wife?” Vadim was laughing as we strode down the street.

I coughed on purpose. “Confirmed bachelor.”

“You’re going to grow old alone, my friend.”

“Bastard. Where the hell are we going anyway?” I asked, scanning the street. We had our share of enemies, as few organizations appreciated the Bratva.

“The place belongs to Luciano Bernardi.”

“The Cosa Nostra Don?” The Cosa Nostra had been a long-standing enemy, separate from Stefano Marino’s organization, but until recently, our two organizations had followed an unwritten guideline. Don’t fuck with the other’s turf. Everything had changed with a recent attack on one of our facilities.

And Vadim was out for revenge.

“Yeah, a new restaurant he’s bringing to the city. Italian of course. The Italian mobsters have zero creativity.”

I noticed a building in the foreground, sighing as I had a bad feeling about what we were about to head into. A restaurant was a good way to launder money after all the generations of bad guys holding the city hostage. While most of our businesses were legitimate, we still needed the old ways to continue procuring our wealth.

“Piece of advice, my friend,” I told him. “You’re going to incite a war.”

“So fucking be it. I’m not going to allow the pompous asshole to damage our reputation.”

“What are we doing here tonight?”

“Just leaving a message.”

As we headed to the door of the building, I marveled at the fact that when Vadim was involved, he refused to use the back door. He’d always loved making an entrance. Hell, so did I. We were cautious, Vadim no longer needing to give his soldiers any instructions.

The door wasn’t locked and as we headed inside, I was struck by the sound of eighties music. The employees were working late, it would seem. The area was completely under construction, most of the square footage still gutted and down to bare brick walls. But there’d been a lot of activity: sawhorses, plywood, and bare metal studs everywhere. What had irked me was that after a long-standing relationship, somehow, Don Bernardi had gotten a solid ‘in’ with the labor union. They had allowed him to avoid the hoops usually necessary for building plans to be approved.

What disturbed the hell out of me was that there were no workers to be seen, but they were here, tools and toolbelts placed in strategic locations.

Vadim motioned to the soldiers to fan out, searching for the workers. We weren’t in the habit of killing innocent men, and certainly not women, but I’d learned a few things over the last several months about the Italian Don. The men on his payroll, no matter their job description, were all highly skilled.

This wasn’t the Wild West of the past crime syndicates, modern technology making everything more efficient, but some of the old ways still applied. The area was huge, just beginning to takeshape. I was a marksman myself, realizing that trained soldiers knew how to hide in less obvious spaces. Between the plastic sheets hanging from rafters to help control dust and the shadows given the only light was from power lamps used by the workers, there were plenty of places to hide.

Suddenly, we heard voices, several men located in another room. I was closest, heading in that direction, easily able to see inside. It was dinner hour, which explained why no one was visible. A crack from behind, one of our men stepping on something accidentally, made the two men feasting on sandwiches toss their food, instantly moving in the direction of the door.

I hated using the term ‘all hell breaking loose,’ but it would seem the men were prepared for a possible attack, which would make sense. Retaliation for a foolish act was just part of the business. Almost immediately, shots were fired. It would seem every construction worker had a weapon of some kind.

At least one of our soldiers dropped and rolled, catching two enemies in the chest. As they were flung across the room, the others advanced. I backhanded one with my weapon, narrowly avoiding being shot. As I jumped back, the pinging sounds as bullets hit the metal studs were a reminder I wasn’t a spring chicken any longer.

And shit. I hadn’t changed out of one of my favorite suits.

I hated dry cleaning. Loathed heading to the small store, even if they’d been very good to me over the years. Their ability to remove blood was extraordinary.

More shots were fired, men grunting like barbarians. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Vadim had his hands full with two men, forced to issue brutal punches. Sadly, it would appearmy illustrious leader had potentially underestimated the enemy soldiers’ capabilities, two men also coming at me at the same time.

The hard blow across my cheek pissed me off. I was thrown backward, barely catching my balance. Fortunately, my reflexes were still spot on and I whirled around, not hesitating to fire off several shots. But the second bastard was on me in a heartbeat, the huge mass of a brute easily tossing me like some ragdoll a few feet away. As I crashed into a makeshift table, my weapon flew from my hand.

What the hell?

Before I had a chance to react, the dude was on me, screaming like some primal beast. He threw his body against mine, pinning me down on the surface of the thick plywood. I was a strong man, capable of bench-pressing hundreds of pounds. Given my size, few men had ever beaten me in a fight.

But this guy was hyped up on adrenaline or drugs, stronger than an ox. The struggle was real, the soldier shifting the barrel of his gun slowly toward my face. Shit. My muscles were already straining, my strength challenged.

I threw one arm back, looking for anything to beat him off with. My fingers touched something metal and somehow, I managed to glance backward.

Fuck, yes.

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