Page 29 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
I eyed him. “Her age is not the only concern.”
“Mm.” Fedor stroked his chin. “What outfit’s she from? Italian? Armenian?” He winked. “Chinese?”
“She’s a marketing executive at Luxe Nest.”
He thought about it for a moment and ended up missing the point. “So, the American Mafia working undercover.”
“She’s an average citizen, working to make ends meet, probably living with the hope that her insurance will suffice in the near future. And if you didn’t understand that, I’ll spell it out: She’s an ordinary girl living an ordinary life.”
Confusion marred his features. “Your meeting took place where exactly?”
“First meeting at the Gipsy and, last night, at the restaurant.”
“She seems to be everywhere. You sure she’s not keeping an eye on you? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman’s tailed you.”
“That’s what I thought.” We shared a look, and he flicked off a smile. “But she’s clear. The meetings have been coincidental.”
“And yet, you’re still concerned. You haven’t out rightly asked for my opinion, but I’ll take my chances and give it anyway. I haven’t seen you this interested in anyone since Irina. That means, she might just be worth the shot.”
My phone vibrated, and I pulled it out, staring at the screen. It was one of the men from the warehouse requesting a video call. I answered on the second ring.
“Speak.”
He was sitting in the back office of the old meatpacking warehouse we used as a front, with a half-empty gin bottle on the desk and papers scattered like corpses after a raid. There was noise in the background, men shouting over one another.
“Boss. I know you literally just got back, but there’s a problem.” Sergei’s voice was low, tight like a piano wire about to snap. “The Dalys.”
Fedor turned his full attention toward the phone when he heard the name of the Irish nuisance. I’d been around longenough to know there had been recurring issues with them, and thePahkanneeded me to put them to rest, once and for all.
“What kind of problem?” I asked Sergei.
“They hit one of our trucks. Two dead. One injured. The men are ready to draw blood. Word is they’re looking to escalate.” His breath hissed through the line like static. “Pasha saw their men wearing colors again. We believe they’re no longer interested in hiding in the shadows.”
I exhaled slowly, letting the tension stew in my lungs before releasing it. “So, they’ve stopped pretending.”
“They want war,” Sergei said. “And from the looks of things, they have to prepare to get one.”
There was a pause, and both Sergei and Fedor waited for me to indicate the next line of action: the empowerment to wreak havoc on the Irish turf and cause as much damage as they had done to us.
Back in Moscow, I wouldn’t have hesitated. In fact, I’d have led the troops to the battleground myself, but this was Los Angeles.
Although thePahkanwanted to eliminate them from our radar, I was familiar with his methods, and I knew he wouldn’t appreciate a loud war starting barely one week after my arrival.
We could take them out with a snuff or a bang.
I chose the snuff.
“No. Not a war.” Sergei seemed taken aback by my decision, but didn’t make a move to interrupt me. “Calm the men. We’re going to deal with them, but we’ll do it quietly. Is that understood, Sergei?”
The hardness in his eyes was proof that he wished for a different approach. Still, he nodded. “Understood, Boss.”
“Take extra precautions. Be wary of those you trust. It could have been inside job, for all we fucking know. The Dalysare angry, desperate, and unstable. Keep the men in line. Make sure no one moves until I say so.”
“I’ll handle it.” He gave a curt nod.
I hung up without another word.
Reports were that the Daly family had been gnawing at our heels for months now, little bites meant to test the muscle beneath our skin.
