A few of the men around the table grumble, as none of them want this war. It will be bloody and dangerous and the likelihood is many of their men won’t survive if it comes to blows with the Lebedev Bratva.
“We were doing so well. This year has been the best we’ve had since I joined the bratva under your father,” Denis says, shaking his head.
I hate moaners, so I glare at him, standing. “If you have a problem with it, you are welcome to stand down from your position.” I cross my arms over my chest. “If we secure Moscow, think how well the Morozov Bratva will be doing in one year’s time.”
Ilya, one of my most respected Boyevik, clears his throat. “It’s a pipedream, no offence, Valery.” He runs a hand across the back of his neck. “Grigory will die before he steps down in Moscow.”
I hate that even my men aren’t behind my quest for Moscow. Is it possible that I’ve become too ambitious? They always knew I didn’t want to remain in Zelenograd, but it’s up-and-coming territory.
“What do you suggest then, Ilya?”
Ilya looks hesitant about answering, which is unlike him. Normally, he’s outspoken and confident about his opinions. “I hate to say I agree with Stas. Give the girl back and grovel to Grigory for forgiveness.”
“Grovel?” I spit, unable to believe that Ilya would ever use that fucking word with me. “Do you take me for the kind of man who grovels to my enemies?” Rage is infecting my blood like a virus as I glare at him.
“No, but I can’t see another way out that doesn’t lead to the destruction of the Morozov Bratva,” Ilya says.
I clench my fists and pace the length of the little room, feeling claustrophobic suddenly. It’s insane to believe that Ilya thinks our only way out of this is by groveling to a man I can’t fucking stand. The fact is, I’d die before I resort to that measure.
“There’s no way in hell that I’ll ever backdown to Grigory Lebedev. He’s not even made a move past putting a price on my head.” I run a hand through my hair. “Let’s see what he does next when that doesn’t work.”
Ilya bows his head and purses his lips, backing down from the argument, but I can tell from the look in his eyes that he doesn’t agree with my decision to stay the course.
Stas clears his throat. “How do you intend to avoid the assassins that Grigory has no doubt set loose on you?”
“I don’t need to avoid them.” I give him a stern stare. “Let them come, and we will see who is still standing by the end of the fight.” Cracking my knuckles, I glance at each of the men individually. “Are there any other matters we need to address today?”
Yaroslav stands. “Yes, those revolutionary fanatics are giving us trouble in the west of our territory.”
Great.
Another issue to deal with. I hate the fanatics who believe they’re going to take down the government and take control, even though their numbers are pathetic. This isn’t 1917, and revolutions just don’t work in this day and age.
“What’ve they been up to now?”
His jaw works. “They hit our last shipment at the docks, but didn’t get away with the cargo.” He shrugs. “It seems they’re getting more ballsy, though.”
I run a hand across the back of my neck, as I can’t let idiots like that make me look weak, especially not when we’re about to go to war with the biggest crime boss in Moscow. “Intimidate them. Send a team of guys into their territory and tell their leader to back the fuck off before we murder them all.”
Yaroslav nods. “Of course. I’ll get onto it as soon as we finish this meeting.” He looks thankful for my reply, as if he’s hungry for the blood of these revolutionaries.
“Any other business?”
I’m met with silence, which I’m thankful for because this bullshit meeting has been driving me insane. All I want to do is return home and take my frustrations out on the pretty little princess waiting locked in her room for me to return.
11
ANYA
Aloud bang startles me awake, forcing me into an upright position. I glance around in a sleepy daze, panicking as my surroundings are so unfamiliar. Until suddenly the memories of the past few days return and I relax, strangely enough.
I doubt many people would relax, remembering they’d been kidnapped by a mobster. Running a hand across the back of my neck, I realize that I feel sore between my thighs, remembering what happened the night before and feeling my skin turn to flames. When Valery kissed me this morning, it felt right, even though that makes little to no sense.
He left at four o’clock in the morning to work, which seems like a bullshit excuse for running away from what we did. And the complete ridiculousness of the situation, considering I’m his prisoner here.
My father is a workaholic, and he doesn’t get up that early, so something doesn’t stack up.
Rolling over, I can’t help but inhale the scent of him that still clings to the sheets. It’s a masculine, woody scent that makes my thighs clench. That man has clawed his way under my skin so effortlessly and, in a way, I’m glad. The rebellious side of me was thankful that my first time wasn’t with some middle-aged man my father picked out to be my husband.