Artem
There’s a second in which everything moves in slow motion.
I see Budimir standing in the shadows, well out of the range of fire.
I see his men move forward, decked out in full riot gear, looking like black beasts ready to feast on the dead.
I see his proud sneer as his loyalists shoot down the men who have just betrayed him.
Someone tries to shoot at Yahontov, or maybe they’re aiming for me, but I manage to push him out of the way.
The two of us duck for cover, but it takes only a moment before my men are firing back with equal vigor.
“Enough!” Budimir screams, and I can hear the suppressed rage in his voice. “Artem Kovalyov!”
Budimir’s voice pierces through even the gunfire, but my men don’t stop shooting. I know they won’t until I give the command.
“Get your men to stand down,” Budimir yells loudly, realizing the same thing. “Or your wife will die.”
The rage is thick in my veins, but I give the order immediately. “Hold!”
The moment the shooting stops, the silence feels resounding. Ominous.
I step out from behind the pillar and watch as Budimir descends the staircase, behind at least ten of his armored soldiers.
It doesn’t exactly project an image of strength, but I know Budimir well enough to know that he would never risk his own safety for a symbolic gesture.
I move to the center of the room.
Budimir halts in front of me, several feet away. My men slowly converge around me, but their guns are still cocked and ready.
“If any of your men open fire,” Budimir says darkly, “I will slit your son’s throat and rip your wife open from throat to pussy. You understand me?”
I don’t reply. I just stare at the motherfucker, until Budimir bares his teeth.
“You fool,” he snarls, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you just stay dead?”
“How could I?” I ask. “After you stole my father’s legacy and his life?”
“Now you care about Stanislav?” Budimir asks. “You were never interested in his legacy, Artem. You were never interested in anything but yourself.”
“That’s true of the man I used to be,” I acknowledge. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in the past. I’m looking to correct that now.”
“By taking back what you think is yours?” Budimir asks.
I know what the bastard is doing. He’s stalling for time, trying to draw out the inevitable with this pointless fucking conversation.
And I’m forced to go along with it because he has the upper hand right now.
He has my wife.
He has my son.
“The Bratva is mine,” I growl at him. “And yes, I will take it back. When I do, you will be the first to die.”
“It’s between you and me now, nephew,” he says. “You really think my men will follow you?”
“Some will,” I reply confidently. “Some won’t. Everyone has a choice.”