Page 40 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

He doesn’t blend in, either.

I’ve seen enough. Time to leave.

I hustle back to the table where Gennady is diving face first into a plate of waffles.

“Smotri,” I hiss in Russian, slouching low across from him.Look.When he glances up, I jerk my head towards the window.

“Shit. Who are they?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think they’re here for the coffee.” I grab my gun from my holster and check the clip to make sure it’s ready. “They’re here for blood.”

14

Dima

“You sure you weren’t followed?” I ask as I survey the building and start mapping out angles and avenues of attack.

Gennady shakes his head fiercely. “No. Goddammit, no. I took a subway and two taxis to the car rental place on the other side of town. I left my phone at home and used a burner. There’s no way Zotov tracked me. No fucking way.”

“Well, someone did.”

Two more men have climbed out of the car now. The one on the passenger side is tall and thin with gaunt cheeks and hollowed-out collarbones. He looks like he’s wasting away. His clothes are tight enough that I can see the bulge of the gun on his hip.

The guy in the back, by contrast, is huge. Almost as big as me. A man and a half in every direction.

“Blyat,that guy is a fucking mountain,” Gennady whispers in awe.

The man in question stands almost a head taller than the SUV and he’s nearly as wide as it, too. He’s so large his entire body sways as he walks, like he can’t get out of his own way.

He’ll be slow, no doubt about that. But he will make it hurt if he catches you.

I don’t plan on letting that happen.

“Do we run?” Gennady asks.

I hate that word. “Retreat” is what my father always said.A real man knows when to retreat.So far, I’ve retreated when the time called for it.

I’m sick of that shit, though. It’s time to fight.

“We have to send a message,” I say. “To Zotov or whoever else he’s working with. If we run, they’ll just keep coming.”

“They’ll keep coming anyway.”

“Sure,” I admit. “But when they do, at least they’ll be scared shitless.”

Gennady smiles. “It’s been a while,” he comments as he starts prepping his own weapon.

“That it has.”

“Do you remember the first time we did this kind of shit?”

I laugh bitterly as I keep an eye on the men sauntering up to the diner steps. “I’ll never forget it.”

The first time Gennady and I ever fought together, we were still in our teens. My father had sent us out to shake down a few dealers who hadn’t delivered their payments after the re-up.

It should have been an easy job. And at first, it was. But the pathetic dealers coughed up what they owed too quickly and too easily. It left Gennady and me unsatisfied.

We wanted something bigger. Something more.

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