Page 11 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Hey, I’m still talking to—” Ruben grabs my arm.

Oh, hell no. He didnotjust do that.

The next millisecond, my other hand jabs out, and snatches up the chip bag I was fantasizing about weaponizing not so long ago. And, just like that, I know what to do: rip it open. Dump it on Ruben. Enjoy the fireworks. It feels every bit as good as I imagined.

As the chips rain down on his stupid head, Ruben makes a sound like a mongoose being strangled and releases me.

“Fuck your stupid dad!” I hiss as I toss the empty chip bag on top of his head. “And fuck you, too.”

And the piece de la resistance: halfway out the door, I trill back over my shoulder in the sweetest voice I have, “You know what, you are right, though. Maybe I just needed to be more chill.”

Sayonara, shithole.

Outside, freedom smells like gasoline-drenched night air and sounds like cars honking at each other for no particular reason. Normally, I’d take the bus, but it won’t be coming for another—I check my watch—yeah, forty-five minutes. Faster to just walk.

Besides, on a night like this, my mind still thrumming with all that happened, I could use a stroll.

I glance at my watch again and check the date. There’s something else too, something I almost forgot.

It’s my birthday.

I throw one derisive look back at the crummy little storefront I used to call work.

“Happy twentieth birthday, Joy,” I mutter sarcastically to myself under my breath. “You’re fired.”

3

Gavril

“Gavril, are you sure …”

“Yes,” I tell Ludmil.

The early morning sun is too hot. A robin is cheerily trilling my headache deeper into my skull. My ribs itch.

Of course I need to be here.

This and various other plans were already put off by Osip’s incident and the time, effort, and money expended in cleaning it up. Then put off again last night, as I wiled away the hours with whiskey and memories.

It was wasteful. No longer will I waste.

According to the briefing Ludmil gave me days ago, something is delaying this construction project—and tying up my money. I intend to find out exactly what.

There are some leaders who would send their men to do this, who send their men to do everything for them.

I am not one of those men. I am not afraid to get my hands dirty.

Of course, in some cases, delegation is inevitable—the minutiae of ordering our weapons, the actual working on the construction sites spread across the city, the screening of potential initiates. That’s all Ludmil’s domain and he’s damn good at it.

But I like control. Control is a lot like power—the more you give it up, the more you spread yourself thin.

The thinner you’re spread, the easier it is for your enemies to find a spot, any spot, to jab the knife in.

Fact: knowing every detail I can about every project I can gives me control.

Fact: this project is particularly important because it has been delayed.

Fact: today I will find out the cause for the delay and fix it myself.

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