Page 101 of Villainous Kingpin
I kept going back and forth and as much as I hated to admit it, Priest was right. It was hard to believe she had not known about it. Even if I assumed she didn’t know about her Russian heritage, she definitely knew about her Irish heritage and she withheld it.
It was still hard to believe that Wynter was the descendant of the Volkov family. She was part of the underworld all along. The resemblance to her ancestors was remarkable. It was as if she didn’t inherit a single trait of the Brennan family.
Except her deception. She played me well. Not for a moment did I doubt her part in the underworld and there she had connections to the Russians and the Irish. No wonder my brutality didn’t bother her.
And still I refused to let go of her.
“I’ll see you soon,” I finally said. “Keep my sister entertained and happy.”
I ended the call and watched the deserted street.
Empty. Just like Priest’s search on the Volkov descendants. He searched up everything on Winter Volkov. There wasn’t much. She married the old Brennan and died young. We searched for information on Aisling Brennan, but that was a dead end road. No pictures. Same when it came to her daughter. The only reasonable explanation was that Wynter was Aisling Brennan’s daughter. The woman my father shot.
And although everything pointed to Brennan’s sister being dead, there was no way she could be. Brennan must have changed Aisling and her baby’s identity.
Jesus Christ!
I let out a frustrated breath, the cold winter air filling my lungs.
At this point, I was certain my father’s presence at my home that day wasn’t a coincidence. Of course, I had no proof. I should kill him and be done with the fucker. If only it wouldn’t bring down the Syndicate on us. I didn’t care if it was just me, but it’d be held against Emory, Priest, and Dante too.
So instead, I focused on finding Wynter.
The hope of finding her grew dimmer and dimmer by the day, but I refused to let it extinguish. I wouldn’t survive it. My humanity certainly wouldn’t. I fucking needed her and I never needed anything. I never kissed a mouth that tasted like hers. I never experienced a touch that soothed and burned like hers.
I shook my head, frustration clawing at my chest. I was born to a monster and became one. Over the last six months, my darkness ruled me. It ran in my veins like poison and Wynter’s lightness was my only cure. I wouldn’t stop searching until I found her. Until I made her fulfill her promise.
She said she would stay. I’d make her stay.
Time to focus.
I glanced around the street on the outskirts of Jersey City. There was only one restaurant on this entire street, probably the entire block. The Bratva didn’t like competition in any area of life. The restaurant sat facing the murky, polluted waters of Newark Bay. The restaurant fancied itself on a water view. More like a sewer view. Leave it to a Russian to fancy up the view.
The street was empty. Most normal people preferred to stay home and celebrate Christmas Eve with their family. Russians weren’t normal people in my book. Besides, they didn’t celebrate Christmas Eve on the same day as everyone else. Worked for me.
I entered the restaurant and sat myself by the table that gave me the entire view of the restaurant and the shitty water.
There were only two men seated around. Probably a cook and a waitress back there somewhere. I locked eyes with a mustached man that looked like he was born in the last century by the way he dressed. Some kind of Romanov style mustache. He couldn’t be more than forty, but dressed like he was a hundred and forty. No fucking style with these Russians.
His eyes shifted around, nervous and panicked. Then he glanced to the door, whether debating to run or expecting reinforcements, I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. I’d kill the motherfucker whether he knew something or didn’t. In my eyes, all Russians were guilty.
A waitress peeked her head, checking to see if indeed there was a customer. My heart stopped. Golden blonde hair. Our eyes met. Disappointment washed over me. They were the wrong color. She came out of the back room and more bitterness slithered through my veins.
Wrong hair too. Blonde but not quite the same shade. Straight.
You’d think after almost six months of hunting for Wynter, I’d get used to this feeling. Disappointment. Anguish. Regret.
She came up to my table. “What can I get for you?”
She looked beaten down. About Wynter’s age, she looked battered mentally and physically.
“Whatever the evening’s special is.”
She nodded and went to the kitchen. While I unfolded the wrapped silverware never looking away from the mustache. Akim Kazimir, the Pakhan’s most trusted man. The second man had to be his bodyguard, because while his boss ate and slurped like it was his last meal, the other guy just sat at the table.
I’ll make it his last meal, I mused sardonically to myself. I just hoped the motherfucker didn’t throw up all this shit he was stuffing himself with. It’d make cleanup a bitch, not that I’d be personally doing it. Or I might just have my men blow up this motherfucking waterview restaurant. It’d save us time.
It took no time for the meal to arrive, considering I was the only other customer. I didn’t bother eating it. I sat back in my chair, watching the man who I searched for over the last few months.
