Page 64 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

“Dima,” he answers on the third ring. “What a surprise.”

He doesn’t sound surprised at all. Then again, why would he? Ilyasov is a cold-blooded bastard. As cold as they come.

As cold as me.

It’s how we were raised. It’s why we knew—ever since that blood-soaked night all those years ago—that we could never coexist.

It’s why we separated our territory into two kingdoms, one for each of us.

He got Chicago.

I got New York.

And it’s why we’ve done our damndest to stay out of each other’s way in the decade since we parted ways.

But things have changed now.

“Ilyasov,” I breathe.

A musty silence ensues. Crackling with unspoken secrets. With long-buried memories.

Eventually, I clear my throat and explain what the fuck I’m doing in his city.

* * *

A Little While Later

Ilyasov kept it short on the phone. He told me where to meet him, and as I walk up to the address, I realize it’s a club.

A line of women in tight dresses far too revealing for the weather and men dripping in gold chains stretches around the corner. Just like Ilyasov told me to do, I move to the front of the line and face the bouncer.

“The fuck you want, buddy?” he snarls around the toothpick in his mouth. “Line’s that way.”

I sigh. “You’re not very smart, are you?”

The man stands up from his stool. He’s fat and tall and reeking of sweat and cheap cologne. He snatches the toothpick from between his lips and snaps it in his fist—like that’s supposed to intimidate me.

“You’d better get walking, amigo.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“You got a death wish?”

I laugh bitterly. “Even if I did, I don’t think you’re the man to fulfill it for me.”

His face wrinkles in confusion and anger. “I’ll give you three seconds to get the fuck out of my face before I hit you. The kind of hit you don’t get back up from.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I suggest.

The man laughs and cracks his knuckles. “Why the fuck not?”

“Because I’m Dima Romanoff.”

My words have the desired effect. His beady eyes bulge. Instantly, all the violence whooshes out of him like water down a drain. He staggers backwards and gulps hard.

“My apologies, sir. Please forgive me. Right this way.”

“That’s better.”

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