The house is run down, obviously neglected, but it’s clear that someone’s inside. There’s a car parked in the driveway and the blinds have been drawn.
I stake the place out for an hour but it seems he’s the only one inside.
Considerate of him to make this so easy for me.
Once I’m confident we’re not going to be interrupted, I turn off my engine and decide to get this over with quickly. As I hide away my gun, I feel a stab of uncertainty.
When Esme finds out, she’s going to be devastated.
But embracing this life is the only way to protect her and Phoenix.
Once Budimir knows I’m alive, he’ll come for me.
I have to get him first.
I already know he hasn’t stopped searching for Esme. Maxim uncovered one of his plots to find her. But he’s got his men searching in the wrong place.
He thinks she’s gone back to Mexico. He’s assumed—incorrectly, of course—that she’s found refuge with one of her father’s former allies.
It’s a good thing he doesn’t know Esme like I do.
I set my jaw with determination and get out of the car.
I’ve always known who I was. This has nothing to do with my father. It doesn’t even have anything to do with Cillian.
This is about me.
I am what my father made me.
And there is no life for me outside of the Bratva.
I make my way around the narrow fence that leads to the back of the house. The garden is small and unkempt. Weeds have overrun the grassy area and the brick walkway has been uprooted.
I step over and move to one of the windows. I scan the area, thankful that the other houses give me coverage. There’s only one window facing me, but the blinds have been drawn.
It’s not a guarantee I won’t be noticed, but I’m far enough away that my features should be obscured.
Then I hear movement. I duck sideways behind the door.
I glance through the window, and see the man I assume is Anton Yahontov. He’s of medium build and height, nothing particularly notable. I can see large, ugly tattoos peeking out from his sleeveless muscle tee.
I roll my eyes, then return to the front of the house. I keep my gun in hand and knock casually.
A few seconds later, I hear him coming. Like an idiot, he doesn’t ask who’s at the door before he opens it.
But he sure as fuck knows who I am when he sees me.
He goes deathly pale, his unnaturally red cheeks going even redder beneath his grisly beard.
“Make one move and I’ll blow your intestines right out,” I growl, keeping the gun pointed directly at him.
He nods slowly.
“Good man. Now, let’s step inside so none of the neighbors will be disturbed.”
He backs into the house. I follow and slam the door shut behind me. A quick scan reveals he’s unarmed and unprepared.
Fucking fool.