Page 1 of Hostage of the Russian
Chapter 1 - Kostya
The Irish problem had finally been resolved.
Months of negotiation, bloodshed, and ultimately, a strategic marriage between Fedya and Maeve O’Rourke had sealed the alliance that would keep peace between the Nikolai Bratva and the Irish mob.
Kostya Nikolai leaned back in his leather chair, fingers drumming against the polished mahogany desk as he surveyed the stack of files before him. With that particular headache managed, he could finally redirect his attention to other matters that had been festering while they handled the Irish situation.
“Danny Hartford,” he murmured, opening the topmost file.
The name had become increasingly problematic over the past several months. Hartford oversaw one of their more lucrative distribution channels in Chicago, a position that required trust and loyalty—two qualities the man had apparently abandoned in favor of greed.
Kostya’s dark brown eyes scanned the documents detailing Hartford’s recent activities. The evidence was damning—skimmed profits, mysterious “losses” in inventory, and most recently, a shipment that had completely disappeared. The man had started small, testing the waters perhaps, but had grown bolder with each successful theft. A dangerous game to play with the Nikolai family.
“Idiot,” Kostya muttered, closing the file with a decisive snap.
He reached for his phone and dialed a familiar number. “Bring him in,” he instructed when the call connected. “Tonight.”
The office door opened, and Viktor entered, his expression characteristically stoic. At thirty-five, his brother maintained the serious demeanor that had earned him respect within the organization, a stark contrast to Kostya’s more mercurial nature.
“You’re handling Hartford personally?” Viktor asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Kostya nodded, standing to pour two fingers of premium vodka into crystal tumblers. He handed one to his brother before taking a slow sip from his own.
“The Irish situation took too much of our attention. Hartford got comfortable.” Kostya’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Time to remind him who he’s dealing with.”
Viktor accepted the drink with a slight nod. “The numbers suggest he’s taken just over two million. Plus the missing shipment.”
“Ambitious for a dead man,” Kostya remarked casually, turning to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office suite. The Chicago skyline glittered beneath him, a kingdom of glass and steel that functioned, in part, because of the Nikolai family’s operations. “Mikhail wants it handled cleanly. Hartford manages too many connections to create unnecessary complications.”
“And you?” Viktor inquired, knowing his brother often had his own ideas about punishment and retribution.
Kostya’s reflection in the glass showed the dangerous gleam in his eyes that appeared when his ruthless side emerged. “I think Mr. Hartford needs a reminder that the rumors about us are true. That you never cross a Nikolai.”
The warehouse on the outskirts of the city had served the Bratva well for many years. Isolated enough for privacy, functional enough for business, and equipped with the necessary amenities for situations requiring special attention. Like tonight’s meeting with Danny Hartford.
Kostya arrived just after midnight, pulling his sleek black Mercedes alongside Viktor’s vehicle. The warehouse lights cast stark shadows across the concrete as he entered, shrugging off his expensive suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. Hartford was already there, flanked by two of Kostya’s most trusted enforcers, his face showing the early signs of persuasion—a split lip, the beginning of a black eye.
“Danny,” Kostya greeted warmly, as though welcoming an old friend to dinner. “I’ve been looking forward to our chat.”
Hartford’s eyes widened, fear replacing any defiance he might have harbored. The Nikolai family’s enforcer had a reputation that preceded him, charming and lethal in equal measure.
“Mr. Nikolai,” Hartford stammered, “there’s been a misunderstanding.“
“Has there?” Kostya replied, circling the man like a predator sizing up wounded prey. “Because my understanding is quite clear. Two million dollars of my family’s money. A shipment of weapons. Both gone.” He stopped directly in front of Hartford, brown eyes darkening as they often did when his mood shifted. “Gone like your future, unless you can explain yourself very convincingly.”
Hartford’s shoulders slumped, defeat evident in every line of his body. “I got in over my head,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Gambling debts. They were going to kill me if I didn’t pay.”
Kostya laughed, the sound echoing off the warehouse walls. “And what do you think I’m going to do?”
The question hung in the air, rhetorical and menacing. Kostya nodded to his enforcers, who stepped back, understanding the signal. This was personal now.
With lightning speed that belied his muscular frame, Kostya struck, his fist connecting with Hartford’s solar plexus. The man doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.
“Where’s my money, Danny?” Kostya asked conversationally, as though inquiring about the weather.
“Gone,” Hartford wheezed when he could finally speak. “All of it. The loan sharks took everything.”
Kostya’s expression hardened. “Then you have nothing of value to offer me?”
