Page 21 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

He would find a way to win.By any means necessary.

And that is exactly what I’m going to do.

Ludmil breaks me out of my reverie with something that sounds plucked right out of my thoughts. “We’ve faced worse odds.”

I incline my head. “That we have.”

Ludmil’s grinning now, on a roll. “Like that time on Jane Street with that mouthy Kato’s gang and their fifty hired guns versus you, me, and five of our guys. How you managed to talk us out of that one and forge an alliance at the same time. Or that other time, the Paul affair, when the fucking FBI tried sticking their nose in where they shouldn’t have, when they had a whole goddamn death penalty case lined up and ready to go, thanks to Walsh’s oh-so-generous contributions.”

My thoughts wander back down memory lane, with no further help from Ludmil. They stray all the way back, to even before any of that, before Ludmil and the Bratva and our empire.

To being back on the mean streets. Just Osip, me, and our shared insanity that one day things would be different.

Osip.

I turn the name carefully in my mind.

Now is an idiotic time to be thinking of my brother. Although, it has been a while since my last update.

Ludmil’s long, thin fingers drill an impatient beat into the tabletop, one that clashes with the even more impatient beat his shoes are tapping onto the floor. “I should call him.” He means Rudy, not Osip.

I tell him, “You should wait.”

Normally, Rudy’s lateness and its extent—has it really only been five minutes?—would displease me. But there is the thought of Osip, of my need for an update.

“Bet he’s chatting up one of his women,” Ludmil says through clenched teeth.

With Ludmil’s Brady Bunch of a family—well-coiffed blonde wife and too-many-to-remember mostly blond kids—he scorns Rudy’s varied and ever-changing tastes as far as women go. My campaign manager favors a busty dancer here, an anorexic college student there. Some studious ones even work under his own nose with tiny skirts and naughty smirks. Rudy gets points for convenience, but not for wisdom. Mixing business and pleasure is a mistake.

Ludmil shrugs. “Might as well give the reports, then. I was going to wait ’til Rudy got here, but he doesn’t need to hear them anyway.”

“More of the same?” I ask.

Ludmil bobs his head. “Walsh is on a roll. Trying to block five new project permits, while the Skull Kings are infringing on our territory all over. Cabbagetown, Moss Park, St. James Town.”

I nod. “Unsurprising.”

“Yes, but …”

Ludmil lets the thought trail off. He doesn’t need to say it: that me losing would give them the chance they’ve been patiently waiting years for. A weak spot, where my defenses are down for them to make their move. To attack.

I straighten my posture in my seat. Let them wait. They’ll die waiting. They won’t find a weak spot. Not now, not ever. I will turn this shitshow of a campaign around, starting today.

By any means necessary.

A knock and then the door opens. Rudy smiles his megawatt smile. “Gentlemen!” he greets.

Our boy Rudy looks, sounds, and acts like a retired football star—still-toned physique, Texan-twangy voice, jaunty step—because that’s precisely what he is. Although he’s not quite so All-American as he seems. He took the millions he made playing football and squandered them on low-quality coke and high-quality strippers. Neither of those worked out so well for him in the wind.

But the bastard knows politics. It’s the only thing keeping him out of the gutter.

“Break it to us.” Ludmil wastes no time. “The worst.”

Rudy’s big smile wavers. “However you spin it, it’s not good.”

“Am I out?” That’s all I need to know. Then we’ll go from there.

He sighs and hesitates, although he eventually concedes, “Not yet, no.”

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