AN HOUR EARLIER—IN A SURVEILLANCE VAN OUTSIDE OF AN NYC O’SULLIVAN WAREHOUSE
I crack my neck and reach for the flask I keep in the glove compartment for occasions exactly like this one: boring fucking surveillance. The only way to make it halfway tolerable is to drink through it.
Phoenix Kovalyov looks at me with raised eyebrows, like he’s waiting for an explanation.
“Want some?” I ask, offering him the flask.
He takes it without hesitation and downs a large swig without so much as a cringe. My turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Dad and I started doing nightcaps when I turned sixteen,” he replies by way of explanation. “And you know him—Don Artem Kovalyov only drinks the best of the best.”
I chuckle. “Is your mother aware of that?”
Phoenix gives me a shrug. “I think it falls under the Bratva’s blanket ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy.”
“Fair enough. It’s a rite of passage. And you are… I wanna say nineteen?”
“Twenty-two,” he growls.
I suppress a smile. I know his age. I just like teasing the kid.
Mostly because he’s got his father’s demeanor—all dark and broody. Every teenage girl’s fucking wet dream, no doubt. But then, he’s been getting attention from women twice his age since he was barely a teenager. The kid has certainly benefited from his parents’ combined genetic pool.
“Twenty-two,” I repeat, like it’s news to me. “No shit. Feels like just yesterday you were born. A little bundle of joy.”
He shoots me a pointed glare. “You’re not gonna get all sentimental on me, are you, Uncle Kian?” he drawls. “I’m not afraid to whoop an old man’s ass.”
“Might be hard to do when you’re still learning the ropes, kid,” I remind him. “Old dog like me still has plenty of tricks up his sleeve.”
Phoenix turns his attention to the small group of men toiling in the warehouse shadows. We’ve been watching them grunt and sweat for almost twenty minutes now. They don’t have a fucking clue we’re here. “So what’s the lesson tonight, then?” he asks. “How to sit back and watch as enemies fuck with your warehouse while you just watch?”
“Sometimes, it’s a mind game,” I tell him. “Other times, it’s a head game.”
He frowns. “What’s the difference?”
“See? This is exactly why your father sent you here to learn from me,” I tell him. “He operates by breaking first and asking questions later—or never. I think before I act.”
That gets a smile out of the kid. “Can I tell him you said that?”
“Please do,” I laugh. “You have my blessing.”
The men out ahead of us are shuffling quickly between their white van and the circuit breaker next to the gate.
“A mind game is all about the enemy. You get into their heads, fuck with them from the inside out. A head game is all about you. It’s about being smart.”
Phoenix absorbs that for a moment. “And this is… a mind game?”
“Head game,” I correct. “We have to be smart.”
“Why?” Phoenix demands. “There’s like four guys out there. You’ve got at least double that number inside the warehouse alone. And even without backup, you and I can take those fuckers alone.”
He’s definitely got his father’s confidence. His trigger finger is tapping on his knee, eager to reach for the gun at his hip and start blasting.
“All true,” I concede. “But what are they doing out there?”
“They’re trying to find a way into the compound,” he guesses.
I shake my head. “Nah. They’re not interested in sticking around.”