Page 42 of Kings of Cruelty

“Think very carefully how you want to finish that sentence,” I snarl at Nikolai.

His lips purse together, but he falls silent.

“I think it’s bullshit,” Yura says. “I don’t want to do it. We’re doing fine now. If you want more business, we can look at other avenues. I met somebody who does cars while in jail—total freak for them, would probably have fucked a car if it was a nice vintage Bentley. He gave me a few tips on how to move parts?—”

“We’re dealing with Andronov!” I shout at him. “If you don’t like it, get the fuck out of here. I don’t need anyone around who can’t fall in line.”

“I think you’re the one who needs to think carefully about what you’re saying,” Nikolai mutters, but he sounds resigned enough to keep me from snapping back at him. “Yeah, whatever. We’ll do this shit until you wake the fuck up and realize how fucking dumb it is.”

The thing is, I don’t want to do it. I’d rather start a chop-shop operation than a human trafficking ring.

But this is what my father wants, and he gets what he wants.

“We need a place to store the cargo,” I repeat. “Nikolai, you can handle that. Yura, we need proper documentation for everything that’s coming into the country.”

Yura sneers at me. “Fine. I’ll look into documents.” He gets up and flips me off as he storms out.

I look at Nikolai. “Are you going to make an immature gesture, too?”

“No,” he says. “But I’ll be thinking somerealimmature things. And some mature ones, too, since you seem to have forgotten—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head before asking coldly, “May I be excused, boss?”

“Get out of here,” I bark.

“Happily,” Nikolai mutters. He stalks out, too, and he shuts the door a little harder than necessary.

I hadn’t expected either of them to be happy, but I also hadn’t thought they’d be so openly defiant.

If I don’t have a grip on either of them, how can I claim to have control over this branch of the Voronkov Bratva?

I sigh and sit down again, fumbling with my phone.

First I send a text to my father.

A sends his regards.

He’ll know what I’m talking about.

I want to go lie down, or to find Sierra and take comfort in her arms, but I know there’s more work to be done.

I look through my contacts until I find the person I need.

Damien Rossi. Giulio Pavone’s consigliere, who seems to do more of the work in the organization than Pavone himself. I wonder, sometimes, if Rossi is the real power in the Pavone family.

I refuse to be like that. I won’t defer to my underlings.

Rossi picks up after two rings. “Voronkov?” he asks, suspicious.

“Rossi,” I greet. “It was great to meet you the other day. I had a few business questions I wanted to discuss, and?—”

“Who’s that?” I hear in the background of Rossi’s call.

Rossi sighs in exasperation. “It’s Konstantin Voronkov. We met him at?—”

“Ooh, the party with the gross canapes. Why did they use that mustard? We’re rich enough that we can afford good food!”

That’s Giulio Pavone. I remember how he’d complained about the food, although everything had tasted fine to me.

“Put it on speaker,” Pavone says, and unlike my underlings, Rossi obeys. “Yo, Voronkov! I was just thinking about you.”

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