Page 83 of Bound to a Monster

“If only I had your optimism.”

Chapter 33

Lev

Ineeded more time. That’s what I keep thinking as the days pass. I needed more time to get my shit together and lay the groundwork for when I’d step into my father’s role.

Now he’s gone, and nothing’s the way it should be.

I stand outside of an old rundown retail space up in North Philly. It’s one of those neighborhoods that looks like it went through a war recently. The houses around here are either boarded up, burned out, or crumbling. Half of them are still occupied though.

The guy that answers when I rap my knuckles on an old plywood door grunts at me. “The fuck you doing here?” he asks, eyes widening slightly when he spots me. He leans forward, keeping the door open only a crack.

“You’ve been ducking my calls.”

“I know, but, you know, shit gets busy this time of year. Hey, why don’t you come back later? In a few months maybe?”

“Jovan. What’s your problem?”

The old Serbian grimaces when I lean against the door. I’m not forcing it open—not yet, anyway—but I am letting him know that I could. He’s wearing rumpled sweats and his dark hair is graying around the edges, but Jovan’s one of my father’s oldest and most trusted connections back to Eastern Europe and all the fancy fake watch makers still lurking around the Balkans.

“Problem? No problem here, old friend, just saying I am very busy. I have many orders, you know? I need to pack them up myself. Can’t trust anyone anymore, right?”

“Let me inside. I want to discuss some things with you.”

“I can’t, really, maybe?—”

I lose my patience. Jovan yelps when I lean my shoulder into the door and force him back. He stumbles into the dirty downstairs room and I follow him in, one hand on the gun in my waistband, looking around me for attackers.

But the place is mostly empty. There are milk crates stacked with an old TV playing cartoons in the corner and more crates forming a makeshift table. A low couch is ripped in multiple spots.

And there are boxes. So many fucking cardboard boxes. All of them marked in various different languages.

“Come on, Lev,” he says, holding up his hands, looking down at my gun. “We’re friends. I’m just a businessman, you know? I’m a nobody, really.”

“You’re a middleman. You’re an importer. You should be loyal. Instead, you’ve been ignoring me and acting strange. What’s going on?”

He groans. “Don’t make me say it.”

“This can be hard or it can be easy. Your choice.”

“It’s Zeitsev,” he says like someone’s dragging it from his throat. “He’s got a silence order out on you.”

I stare at Jovan for a moment as the words slowly register.

Then I slump sideways and lean against the wall.

A silence order. Fucking shit.

That sounds worse than it is, honestly. If Zeitsev wanted me actually dead, there wouldn’t be an order. I’d have a dozen hitmen hunting me down. Instead, a silence order means I’m basically persona non grata to the city. Anyone caught dealing with me will be punished and shunned by the Bratva. For some legitimate folks that don’t know anything about the underworld, that’s not really a big deal. But for a guy like Jovan?

I knew things were bad. When Valentin didn’t show up at my father’s funeral and didn’t send a Bratva representative, it was clear that I’d miscalculated how he’d respond. Thepakhanof the Zeitsev is a clever and ruthless man, and I had assumed he’d reluctantly accept me, maybe after some displays of loyalty and good faith.

I didn’t think he’d straight-up blacklist me like this.

“They could shoot me for talking to you,” Jovan complains, waving his hands in the air. “I had nothing to do with it, you know that.”

“I don’t blame you.”

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