Page 4 of Wrath
Scar-face was coming to, and every atom in Wyatt’s body wanted to crush him, but he held back and watched the thug help his bloody friend up.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Scar-face said, sputtering through a bloody mouth.
Wyatt arched his eyebrow.Why’s that, asshole?
“Dimitri will hear about this,” was his only reply.
It was then Wyatt noticed the man had a tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Points of a star.Bratva. The Russian Mob.
Like he gave a shit. He waited for the two men to drive away in their shiny Volvo Passat, gave them a mocking finger wave, and then walked back to Betty.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” the old man shouted behind Wyatt, echoing the mobster’s earlier words.
Wyatt faced him. The man had gone pale, as was his son.
“Better for us to take a beating than what they will send next,” said the old man.
Wyatt shrugged.
“Dimitri. They will send Dimitri.” The old man’s eyes widened in fear.
A sigh tore from Wyatt’s raw throat and he slumped. He was tired, weary from months on the road, and now he’d fucked up. This family was going to pay for his mistake. He could almost hear his adoptive mother’s voice in his ear.Family first, Wyatt. You protect your own before anything else. Well, he sucked at helping his family, but perhaps he could do something about this one.
How?
His gaze roved around until it landed on a sign in the window behind the family.Help Wanted.Wyatt pointed at it.
The old man’s brows winged up. “You want to work here?”
Wyatt nodded.
Alek’s expression lit up. Well, he was certainly excited about it, but then: “No,” the old man said. “We need a chef.”
Wyatt punched his chest.I am a chef.
Well, he was. Once.
It was clear the old man wasn’t happy, but Alek kept signing erratically at his father, and whatever he said made the man hesitate.
“Why you not speak?” the man asked, his Polish accent thick.
Wyatt touched his scarred throat and then made a break sign with his hands.
“You no’ talk?” the man asked again.
He shook his head, then jogged to Betty—why the fuck was he jogging?—and opened his duffel bag. There wasn’t much inside. A spare change of clothes, his wallet… and his knives. His pride and joys that took him to the heights of being a Michelin starred chef and the lows of the pawn shop, almost. The collection was worth hundreds of dollars, maybe thousands and was his last resort before accessing his old bank accounts, and thus giving away his position to his family. It was either pawn them, or get a job to fix Betty. Well, this was a job. He could kill two birds with one knife. Earn enough to fix the bike and stick around in case those fuckers showed again—and then get the fuck out of Dodge.
He snagged the knife roll out of the bag and walked back to the old man where he unrolled the package. Gleaming metal blades shone in the sun. After a pensive look at the knives, the old man turned to his son who nodded emphatically as he signed.
“Okay,” the man said. “Alek thinks you being here will help keep Bratva away. Maybe this is the way we go from here. You can have the job.” Then he mumbled, “Let’s hope you cook well enough, too.”
A coldness dropped in the pit of Wyatt’s stomach. He rolled his knives back up and tucked the package under his arm. Was he really doing this?
“My name is Filip. You can call me Vooyek like everyone else—is name for uncle.” He nodded at his son. “This is Alek.”
The boy stared at Wyatt’s throat—at his scar. When he looked up, his eyes widened at having been caught, but Vooyek didn’t seem to notice.
“Come, Alek. We have to prepare for dinner.” He tugged his son by the collar, then shot Wyatt a concerned look over his shoulder. “We see you in the morning at seven. We open at eleven for lunch.”
