My phone buzzes in my hand and Dmitri Varkov’s name flashes on the screen. I’ve been waiting for his call. I tap the screen to answer, looking at the Chicago skyline through my apartment window. “Tell me where we’re at.”
“He’s gone underground. Still not prepared to go down quietly,” he replies.
“Well, we never expected him to,” I remind him. Dominik Pushkin was the head of the Russian Bratva for over twenty years. I doubt he ever expected his leadership to be challenged, particularly because he has two capable sons, and especially not by Dmitri Varkov.
“I know that, but I didn’t anticipate him putting up the fight he has. I’ve lost a dozen good men already.”
Rage prickles beneath my skin and my right hand balls into a fist. We also lost two men last week, but that’s the nature of our business. “You’re trying to take over as the new head of the fucking Bratva, Dmitri. What the hell did you expect? That he’d just roll over and hand you the keys to his kingdom?”
“No!”
“If you’re getting cold feet and you need us to handle this ourselves—”
“No. I can handle it,” he says.
“You know that Dante and Lorenzo can’t be seen to let this go. This is their father’s murder we’re talking about.”
“I know, Maximo. There’s no need for any of you to get more involved than you already are. Let me handle this my way.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the tension headache that’s been building for the past few hours. Dmitri is in a tenuous position. Having the backing of the Moretti brothers can be both a blessing and a curse. The Morettis rule Chicago, and their seal of approval basically grants Dmitri permission to challenge the top. But there’s an added complication that makes this a fine line for him to walk—the new head of the Bratva can’t be perceived as a lackey to the Sicilian Mafia. An alliance is good for business, but Dmitri needs to prove that he’s equally powerful standing alone. And Dante and Lorenzo cannot allow Pushkin to evade their wrath much longer, not after they openly accused him of murdering their father, Salvatore Moretti.
He didn’t. Dante killed Sal himself after he discovered the sick, twisted shit his father was involved in for years.
But that secret will remain locked within the Moretti compound. Family business is family business. Besides, the lie is a great excuse to get rid of that piece of shit.
“I underestimated the support he’d have with the other families. I had to be careful about uncovering the evidence with everything that was involved,” he says pointedly.
He means everyone, not everything. More specifically, one person. Salvatore Moretti. Things would’ve have been easier for Dmitri if he could have exposed his former boss’s full role in the sex trafficking ring much earlier. It would’ve turned most of the other families against him immediately, but because Sal was involved in the whole fucked-up situation, he had to be discreet about it.
“Both Dante and Lorenzo appreciate your discretion in keeping their father’s name out of any scandal.”
“I gave them my word.”
Dmitri is a man of his word. And he’s a hell of a lot easier to work with than his predecessor. Hell, I actually kinda like the guy. But this is business, and given the stakes involved, I can’t allow any leniency. If he can’t bring Pushkin to us soon, then we will be forced to find him ourselves. And that really won’t look good for him.
“Do you have any idea where’s he’s hiding?”
“I’m working on it. Now that I’ve been able to reveal what Pushkin was involved in without implicating Salvatore and they’ve all seen the proof for themselves, things should move more quickly. His sons have gone to ground too. They’re running scared. It won’t be long before we find them and deal with them.”
“Good.”
“I have some leads to follow tomorrow if you’re interested in tagging along?”
I rub a hand over my jaw. “I can’t. I have some shit to deal with.”
“I’ll keep you informed then.”
“Before you go, I wondered if you could look into something else for me.” I don’t have a lot for him to go on, but I need answers fast, and he’s well connected.
“Sure. What is it?”
I recall everything Kristin told me about the father of her baby. “I’m looking for a guy. I only have a first name, but I think he’s probably Bratva.”
“Is he local?”
“No. New Jersey. At least he was there around six months ago. I don’t think he was from there, but he definitely operated around those parts.”
“His name?”
“Jakob.”
“Anything else?”
“Tall. Shaved head. Twenty-four. Russian.” I don’t tell Dmitri about his dreamy eyes, killer smile, or abs for days—which were the only other details Kristin gave me.
“Why do you think he was Bratva?”
“Just a feeling.” Everything about the way she described him, his tattoos, his paranoia, the way he disappeared at a moment’s notice, his money, it all screamed Bratva.
“I’ll ask around, but it’s not a lot to go on. Unless he’s someone high up, then maybe I can trace him.”
“If you could get me a name and a location, I’d appreciate it.”
“Anything I should be concerned about?”
“No. Just helping out a friend.”
“I’ll see what I can do. And I’ll keep you updated on Pushkin.”
I end the call and stare out the window. Kristin’s situation is a problem I could do without right now. With everything going on for Lorenzo and Dante, I need to pick up the slack, but instead I’m distracted looking for Kristin’s father.
And then of course there’s my other distraction. My constant, makes my cock twitch just looking at her, sarcastic, spoiled brat, ray of utter fucking sunshine of a distraction. I open the app on my phone and stare at the small blue dot on the screen.
That’s her. Joey Moretti. My girl. At some bar with her friends. I didn’t stick around after her workout today to see what she chose to wear to go to said bar, but I can guarantee it was short and tight. The best outfit she could find to show off her perfect long legs. The amount of time I spend tracking her movements is borderline obsessive. But what else can I do? Knowing that she’s out there without my protection. Knowing that some jackass is probably salivating over her right now, thinking he might have a shot with her. Thinking about touching her. Actually touching her.
Rage bubbles up in my chest and sears through my skin at the thought of another man putting their hands on her. I stare at the dot on the screen. She has two armed escorts with her. They’re some of her brother’s best men. She’s safe. She’s also in a bar with dozens of guys who would love to fuck her.
Grabbing my cell, I stuff it into my pocket and walk into the den to grab the keys to my bike.
“Are you going out?” Kristin asks. She’s curled on the sofa, watching a movie on her laptop even though I have a huge TV.
“Yeah.” I swallow the knot of guilt. She’s perfectly safe here, and I can’t babysit her all the time. I still have a life to live while I’m helping her out. “I have somewhere I need to be.”
She frowns at me. “You have a date?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”
“When will you be back?”
I glance at my watch. It’s a little after ten, and Joey usually heads home around midnight on Friday nights so she can be awake and ready for Gabriella on Saturday morning. “Two hours. Maybe three. Don’t wait up.”
“You know I will anyway,” she says with a sigh.
“You shouldn’t though, Kristin. I’m more than capable of looking after myself and you are safer here than anywhere else in the world. I promise you.”
“I know. I just …” Her throat contracts as she swallows.
She’s just a pregnant and terrified eighteen-year-old who just lost the only person in the world she’s been able to depend on. And while Uncle Vito might be a piece of shit for having an affair with his brother’s wife—my mom—and running off with her, he’s still Kristin’s father. I may have only known about my baby sister for a week, but she deserves a better big brother than the one she got.
I close my eyes and sigh. Joey is fine. She’s safe. Me going to that bar and watching her for the next few hours will only end the same way it always does—me frustrated, with a raging boner and only my hand to fuck.
Tossing my keys back onto the sideboard, I walk to the sofa and flop down beside Kristin. “What are we watching?”
“Bridesmaids,” she says with a smile.
“Then can we at least watch it on the TV instead of this tiny ass screen?”
She picks up the TV remote from the table beside her and hands it to me. “Sure.”
