seconds, until there could be absolutely no doubt that I
was his.
Then he straightened up and his jaw set in that
expression of absolute determination I knew so well. “I
need to handle this,” he told me. “I have to go.” And
then he was striding down the hallway.
Chyort! What have I done? “Remember what you
promised,” I called after him.
I saw his shoulders rise. He heard me...but he didn’t
look back.
25
Angelo
I got Rico to meet me at Underground and we holed up
in my office while I told him the bad news. His reaction
was similar to mine, except, when he punched the wall,
he took a chunk of plaster out of it. “Those guys have
been buying guns from us for twenty years!” he
snapped. “The whole fucking charter buys from us.”
“Not anymore. Question is, what do we do about it?”
Rico considered. “The Russians don’t know we know?”
I shook my head.
“Then we kill the sons of bitches. We get the bikers
back on our team and we take out the bratva fucks they
sent to kill us. We ambush them like they were going to
ambush us.”
I leaned back in my chair and thought about it. “Or...we
could just call off the meet. We get the bikers buying
from us again, sure. But we don’t ambush the
Russians.”
“Why the hell would we do that? This is the perfect
opportunity!” Rico stalked over to my desk. “What’s with
you? This is exactly what we need to show the Saints
we can handle the Russians.” He put his hands flat on
my desk and leaned over me. “C’mon, boss. Now’s not
the time to go soft.”
“I’m not going soft!” I snarled. I jumped to my feet so
fast my chair hit the wall behind me. “We ambush them,
maybe hurt them, maybe kill them. Then what? Vasiliy
will be after blood! It’ll be all-out war!”
“Maybe we need a war!”
We glowered at each other, our faces only a few feet
apart. But the real fight wasn’t between Rico and me.
The real fight was going on inside, between the old me
and the new me. A week ago, I would have taken the
opportunity like a shot, killed as many Russians as I
could and the hell with the consequences. Meeting Irina
had changed everything but I couldn’t figure out if she
was helping me see clearly or leading me astray. I stood
there for long seconds, every muscle rigid, trying to
decide between betraying Irina and betraying my side.
I promised her….
But I’d made a promise to my dad, too, as he lay dying
in my arms. I’d promised I’d never let his turf go to the
Russians.
“Fuck it,” I said, straightening up. “Get the guys. We’ll
go see the bikers. Then we’re going to give those
Russian bastards a surprise.”
26
Irina
It was just after eight when I heard a pounding at the
door. I checked the door viewer and—
Oh God. No!
I threw the door wide. Vasiliy and Mikhail rushed inside,
carrying a man between them. I didn’t recognize the
guy, but he had bratva tattoos on his neck and the
heavy build of one of Mikhail’s thugs.
And he was dying. His white shirt was soaked through
with blood from a chest wound, his hands slickly red.
“Clear the table!” snapped Vasiliy. “Leave the door
open. Yuri is on his way with the doctor.”
I ran ahead of them and swept everything off the dining
table. He didn’t have to tell me to bring clean towels. I
was a Malakov: this wasn’t the first time I’d done this.
They laid the guy on the table and I stepped in close.
He was guarding his wound with both hands and
wouldn’t let Vasiliy or Mikhail see. “Shh,” I told him. “Let
me look.”
Teeth gritted, he moved his hands. Fresh blood welled
up—I found the place and pressed hard with my
wadded-up towel. He arched off the table and howled,
cursing, while Vasiliy and Mikhail helped to hold him
down. Thank God Rachel is out! “What happened?” I
asked Vasiliy.
“The Italians ambushed us!” he spat. “We barely got
out.”
Oh Jesus. The guy started to thrash in pain, whacking
his head against the table. I grabbed the first soft thing
I could see and stuffed it under his head as a pillow.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
Vasiliy shook his head and then squeezed the dying
man’s hand. “Just Josef here.”
I relaxed for a split second...and then realized that he
was only talking about our side. “What about the
Italians?” I asked.
Vasiliy looked at me as if I’d gone crazy. “Who gives a
fuck about them?!”
I dropped my gaze and concentrated on Josef. Blood
was soaking through the towel. Please God, don’t let
him die!
“There was a lot of shooting,” said Mikhail with
satisfaction. “I think we got some of them.”
I have to call Angelo! But then Yuri, Vasiliy’s bodyguard,
burst in with the doctor, an overweight guy pushing
sixty with a duffel bag full of gear. “I could use a hand,”
he said as soon as he saw Josef.
“Irina can help you,” said Vasiliy. “She’s done it before.”
I had. I’d helped patch up Luka and a few others—even
Vasiliy himself, once. But I’d never before done it
knowing I was the one responsible for the shooting.
At first, Vasiliy and Mikhail had to hold the guy down.
Once the doctor had given him something to knock him
out, they were able to step back...and their voices soon
rose in anger.
“Somebody talked,” growled Vasiliy. “We had those
bikers too scared to run to the Italians. The Italians
must have gone to them.” He grabbed the front of
Mikhail’s shirt. “That means one of your men warned
them.”
“It was one of mine who got shot!” Mikhail wrestled out
of Vasiliy’s grip. “Could have been one of yours who
warned them.” He pointed at Yuri. “Could have been
him.”
Vasiliy and Yuri just stared at him, stony-faced, until
Mikhail dropped his gaze. Yuri was Vasiliy’s bodyguard
for years before he started guarding Luka. When Vasiliy
came to New York and needed a man he could really
trust, Yuri came with him. They’re almost like brothers
and Yuri is almost part of our family. He’s one of the
few Russian men I actually like and to question his
loyalty was unthinkable.
“We will find out who talked,” muttered Vasiliy. “And
execute them.”
My fingers slipped and I let go of the clamp I was
holding. Blood spurted and ran. “Goddamnit!” snapped
the doctor. “Be careful!”
“Sorry,” I said quickly. I kept my eyes firmly on the
wound. I wouldn’t let myself look away from the horror,
from the sight of his skin growing pale as the life
pumped out of him. Look at it, Irina. Look at what
you’ve done.
The doctor replaced the clamp and I took hold of it
again, this time with a death grip. I didn’t falter even
when Vasiliy moved close behind me and placed his
hand on my back. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he
muttered. “It’s not your fault. Thank you for helping.”
I nodded and said of course. And felt like a Moscow
sewer rat.
After two long hours, the doctor said that Josef should
make it. He patched him up enough to risk moving him,
and Yuri and Mikhail carried him to Yuri’s car. I stared at
the bloodstained towels and bits of gauze that littered
the floor, then got a trash bag and started to clear up. I