Page 47 of For a Price

…but what if he’s heard about what Roman did to Leonid? Is Leonid high enough on the food chain?

“He’s the sovietnik’sbrother,” I answer my thoughts. “The question is, would that matter to the pakhan?”

Then I realize I have no way of knowing.

I’m not an expert on criminal organizations, even as a criminal myself. Let alone an expert on the fucking bratva.

All I know is what I’ve learned from TV and heard in passing while on the streets. Some always warned to avoid the Russian neighborhood in Old Northam, citing that half the businesses were run by the Russian mob. Others told me to never steal from a Russian.

They would walk on glass for their revenge.

A shudder racks through me. I tried tokidnapa whole-ass Russian mob boss.

Stupid, Kat! STUPID!

I smack a hand to my forehead remembering how foolish I’d been to accept JC’s job proposal in the first place. If only I could turn back time and change myyesto ano…

Seeking a distraction, I gravitate toward the dresser and mirror on the far side of the room. It’s been several hours since I washed my hair, which means I can unravel my twist outs. My reflection still makes me cringe, the bruises and swelling decorating my face jarring compared to how I normally look.

I work in tense silence, carefully untwisting each section to minimize frizz. Without any real hair products, it makes the task damn near impossible, but I do my best. It’s as I’m reaching the last few twists that voices trail into the room.

For the first second, I’m practically on the verge of implosion. My heart freezes up midbeat and my eyes dart wildly around.

…then it occurs to me that the voices aren’tinsidethe room. They’re trickling in from the room over.

My gaze scales up the wall until it reaches the air vent positioned directly above the mirror and dresser. I can hear Roman and another man who must be the pakhan.

I go still and strain my ears, their voices becoming even clearer.

“Ya ne zhdal tvoyego vizita. No dlya menya bol’shaya chest’, chto vy prishli?*.”

“Ya byl v etom rayone, I tvoy otets ochen’ khorosho otzyvayetsya o tebe?*,” comes the pakhan’s smooth baritone. He sounds younger than the sovietnik, despite being his—and everyone’s—boss.

I can’t understand a word they’re saying, but I listen on anyway.

“Yest’ vazhnyy vopros dlya obsuzhdeniya. Vy znayete o napryazhenii v pyati sem’ yakh?*.”

“Da, my dolzhny byt’ umnymi?*,” answers Roman.

Their discussion goes on for some time, leaving me little to go on beside the inflection of their voices. I’ve never heard Roman address someone so… respectfully. Not even when he spoke to his father at the dinner last night.

It’s clear it’s the pakhan who’s really in charge.

My attention wanes, thrown off by too much Russian dialogue, before English words suddenly zap me back into focus.

“Leonid,” says the pakhan in stilted English. “I hear he is in great pain. You were the cause.”

A second long pause goes by, tension ratcheting up.

“Da?*,” answers Roman simply.

No further explanation provided. No justification. No regret or apology. His tone even changes, the single word coming out almost challengingly.

I hold my breath, waiting for the pakhan’sreply.

“Roman, your father is very upset.”

“He will get over it.”

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