After getting the four nods of approval, Mishca climbed up on the table, resting his hands beneath his head as Clorick set up. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the thrilling hum of the gun starting up.
“I hear you are married now,” Clorick said in that gravelly accent of his, peering over Mishca as he began the intricate cross that he would be creating. “I am offended that you did not think to include me.”
“You were in the old country, I believe,” Mishca said with a smile, then grimaced as the pain started. While he enjoyed tattoos as much as the next person, that didn’t mean he enjoyed the pain that came with it. “Besides, I sent an invitation to your last address. I can’t be blamed that you hadn’t lived there for the last decade.”
“Bah, I kid. How is she, your wife?”
“She’s well.”
“And kids? Have you talked of this?”
Mishca blinked in surprise. That hadn’t been something they ever talked about, not that he could remember. He knew at some point he would need to, but for now, he was happy with where they were.
“We’ll see.”
“There’s plenty of time for that, no? Go explore the world. You are young, cherish it. Do not let our life consume you, yes?”
“Thank you for the advice, Clorick.”
For a while, they sat in silence, just letting the buzz of the tattoo gun speak for them. With each passing line, Mishca knew that from this point, things would have to be different. He would have to be different. He wanted to change the structure that Mikhail had created, and more importantly, he wanted to create a different legacy for himself than the one Mikhail had passed down to him.
With this, he had all the power, and now he could do what he had always wanted.
Leaving the manor, Mishca placed the set of duffel bags Vlad had left for him in the trunk of his car, already having gone through them once Luka had told him where they were stashed.
To say that Vlad’s investigation had been thorough was an understatement. There was enough incriminating evidence in just one of the flash drives stashed away to send Mikhail away for the rest of his life, plus thirty years, let alone what Mishca had found on the rest of them. Not only was there information on practically everyone in the Bratva, but some of their enemies as well.
Mishca had willingly handed over some of that evidence to the other Pakhans as a sign of good faith between them, but that didn’t mean he gave everything up. Luckily, only he and Luka knew about the information Mishca now held—since he told the Pakhans he’d come across it elsewhere—and that gave him the leverage he would need to get rid of a thorn in his side.
He drove out to a cigar shop in Brighton Beach, one of the few places Mikhail liked to go to unwind. It was no secret that he had lost favor with the others, rumors spread like wildfire.
Mikhail was sitting alone in a back room, guardless for a second time. He had a Cuban in one hand, already lit, a thin stream of smoke billowing from the tip. He hardly acknowledged Mishca’s presence when he entered, but that was to be expected since he knew what was coming next.
This was the first time Mishca had ever seen his father in such a somber mood, but with all he was facing, Mishca could understand why. They hadn’t stripped Mikhail of his markings out of respect, but at this point they were worthless, and everyone knew this.
With where he was going, he would need to stay in Mishca’s good graces, a place he had never been.
“Why are you here?” Mikhail asked, reclining back in his seat as though Mishca still answered to him. Old habits died hard, he supposed.
“The manor, is there anything you want from it?” It would be on the market within twenty-four hours, and Mikhail would be out of the country within the same timespan.
“Not particularly, but I suppose I should be a little more respectful since you have moved into my position.” He laughed without humor, tapping his cigar against the edge of an ashtray. “Just because you bear that symbol does not make you worthy of it. What makes you think that I will let this happen?”
Mishca pulled out a chair, slapping down a single folder full of surveillance pictures, audio transcripts, and more that hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface. “You never had a choice. You have one chance, Mikhail, and only one.” Next, he placed a flight plan on top of the folder, a one way ticket to Russia. “Return to the motherland, set up your business there if you wish, but so long as I head the Volkov Bratva, you are never to return. If you do, if I ever catch wind of you here, I will send this file to someone that will make sure you pay for your crimes.”
Mikhail glared down at it, not bothering to open it at all, probably already knowing what was inside it. “You think to blackmail me?”
“Not much thinking about it. I am. Your flight leaves in the morning.”
Mishca would have left it at that, figuring he had made his point, but Mikhail had never backed down from a fight, even when it was one he couldn’t win.
“I will have you slaughtered like—”
He didn’t get to finish that statement, not before Mishca pulled out his gun and fired a warning shot into the floor, right between his feet.
“Next time, I won’t miss.” Mishca walked towards him, sticking the barrel of his gun beneath Mikhail’s chin.
The older man hissed, feeling the burn of the heated muzzle, but he didn’t flinch away. He was too proud of a man.
“I would have let you stay, would have let you spend the rest of your miserable days in that shithole restaurant of yours, but do you know what I found in these files? You sanctioned the Albanians to come after me when they got Klaus instead. Yes, I hated you then too, but I was still loyal, and yet you never thought to mention that.”
Mikhail remained stoically silent, his face not revealing a single emotion.
“The only reason you get to live is because I need someone to assume responsibility for the deaths at your restaurant. Don’t worry, the men under your command will take the majority of the blame and will probably be sentenced to life because of it. Luckily for you, you will be out of the country, and you and I both know how Russia feels about extraditing back here.”
Mishca put his gun away, straightening his clothes. “And don’t bother trying to have me killed, the last person that tried didn’t fare too well.” Bending down so that he was nose to nose with Mikhail, Mishca smiled coldly. “Besides, I have a very pissed off mercenary that would love to take your head. If he could find a man in the mountains of Siberia, he can find you.”
Straightening, Mishca turned, ready to get out of there, but Mikhail always had to have the last words.
“You will never be me.”
“You’re right about that—I won’t. I’m worse. Be careful what you wish for.”
When he returned home, Lauren was waiting up for him, a resigned look on her face. It still baffled his mind sometimes, the way she could read a situation and know exactly what was going on.
“Can I see it? She asked, sounding like she expected him to deny the request.
Nodding once, he carefully drew up his shirt, mindful of his new tattoo, until he had his shirt off. Her eyes softened when they fell to the bullet wound on his chest, but soon clouded with confusion at the absence of the new mark that was meant to be there.
Before she could ask, he turned, giving her his back. She was climbing off the bed, her soft steps bringing her closer to him. Instead of placing the cross on his chest as was customary, it was placed on his back since it was still too early for his chest due to his wounds. It was temporary, Mishca believed, until he was able to receive the cross on his chest.
“I know what it is,” she said carefully, “but what does it mean for you?”
“With Mikhail going to Russia, I have to take his place.” That was the easiest way for him to explain it to her.
She blinked, her lips parting as that sank in. “You’re the new Pakhan.”
He nodded.
Lauren took a step back, her eyes straying t
o the cross constantly as though she was trying to will it away. But it would always be there, and with came more responsibility, more danger, and a far different life in general, but if she had accepted him before, she would have to accept this now.
“Is this what you want?”
In some ways, it was what he wanted. He liked being able to govern his own life for once, making the rules and keeping order, but he also feared that power, knowing what it could do to men.
It was a chance he was going to have to take.
“It is.”
She reached for his hands, twining their fingers together. She gave him a shaky smile, making sure he saw the sincerity in her eyes. “We’ll figure it out together, yes? Wherever this road takes us.”
To this, he nodded and kissed her knuckles. “We will.”
the tarmac on a private airfield in the middle of nowhere. It was only the two of them, Mishca and Lauren in the back of the town car, waiting for Mikhail to appear. Mishca hadn’t wanted to drive, though Lauren hadn’t known why. Really, she didn’t know why she was there, thinking that Mishca might have wanted to be alone with him, especially with what he had told her.
All morning he had shared everything with her, not sparing a detail of what was happening with Mikhail, with the Bratva, and what he expected in the future. She was glad that he had, and she had even shared her feelings on it all.
Now, she believed they were stronger than ever.
Lauren looked over to him, hoping to gauge some sense of his mood, but she couldn’t read anything in his expression. “Are you okay?”
He nodded without looking at her, but did reach across the space between them to take her hand, bringing it up to his lips, pressing them against her knuckles.
Finally, another car rolled in, Mikhail climbing out of the back of it. He no longer had the two giant goons following him, nor did he have that proud air about him. Now, he just looked like an older man going on a trip.
On the afternoon news some hours from now, a few of his associates would be confessing to the murders of the twenty-one people in The Den, naming him as their contractor. Not only did Mishca have the files of Mikhail’s past crimes, but he had pretty much guaranteed that Mikhail would never return here if only for fear of prosecution.
“I can stay here while you talk to him,” Lauren suggested as the passenger door was opened by their driver.
“Nonsense. We’re a package deal, remember?”
And he was making a point to Mikhail that despite all of his best efforts, they were still standing together.
Mishca stepped out first, extending his hand to Lauren. Mikhail seemed to only have eyes for her as they approached which would have normally made her nervous, but it was different knowing that he was being exiled to Russia.
“Come to see me off?” Mikhail asked by way of introduction.
Mishca regarded his father. “We thought it was only right considering you brought us together.”
“I would not have extended you the same curtesy.”
This hadn’t been what Lauren was expecting. It didn’t really feel like a send-off, but of two men still fighting for power. But there was no way for Mikhail to win this, and he knew that.
“Be careful out there, boy. It is an unforgiving world we live in..”
Nodding, Mishca extended his hand to Mikhail. “Have a safe trip.”
Accepting it, Mikhail then turned to Lauren. “Take care of him, young Lauren. He will need you.”
Mikhail left them standing there, boarding the plane, the door closing behind him.
Lauren reached for Mishca’s hand, twining her fingers with his as they watched the plane take off into the air. One by one, every obstacle they had faced in their relationship dropped out of their lives.
Now—besides Mishca’s new obligations to the Bratva—there was nothing standing in their way.
“You should head home,” Mishca said once the plane was no longer in sight. “I have something I need to handle first.”
One thing she had grown used to since Mishca had gotten the cross was his tone when he referred to the Bratva. While she no longer asked about his dealings—deciding to stay ignorant of it all—she did recognize the differences between when he was with her and when he was working.
“Should I ask how you’re getting home?” She asked since they had rode together.
At that moment, Luka pulled into the lot, saluting her from the driver’s seat. She still wondered what had happened between them, besides Vlad’s death, that had made them so distant towards each other. Normally, he would have given her a silly grin, or actually gotten out of the car to say something weird, but he didn’t move, and as soon as she waved back at him, he turned to look straight ahead.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Can you do me a favor?” Lauren asked, clasping his hand.
“Of course.”
“Fix whatever this is with Luka. I don’t like it, and no, I don’t care what he did.”
Kissing her hand, then her cheeks, he promised, “I’ll work on it.”
It was time.
Mishca entered his childhood home for what would be the last meeting held in the basement there. Now that Mikhail was gone, and considering Alex felt the same way about it, Mishca had put the place up for sale.
There was no guarantee it would sell for the amount Mikhail had paid for it, but Mishca didn’t care about that. He just wanted to be rid of it. Inside, furniture was covered in plastic sheets, the precious art once hanging on the walls already shipped off to Mikhail’s new house in Russia, all except for one.
Catja’s portrait still hung on the wall outside of Mikhail’s office, at least until Mishca left once his meeting was over. He didn’t care that Mikhail had asked for it, it would be going with him to his home where it rightfully belonged.
Luka trailed behind Mishca, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Mishca knew it was odd for the enforcer to have moved up in the ranks so quickly, especially when it was something he didn’t want, but Mishca wouldn’t be making the same mistakes as Mikhail. Only those he trusted implicitly would stand by his side.
But, he also thought the former enforcer would miss his short stint at The Gilded Room.
“Ready, Boss?” Luka asked as he shoved the door to the basement open.
Mishca clapped him on the shoulder, but didn’t respond as he moved past him, collecting his thoughts as he walked down the stairs, the whispers of voices below him tapering off.
When Mishca emerged at the bottom, representatives of the three other families climbed to their feet in a sign of respect. Mishca looked to his former chair, a place he’d sat for the last eight years. No longer was he considered one of them.
He was their boss.
He was their Pakhan.
Waving for them to sit down, Mishca took his own seat at the head of the table, making sure to face each of them in turn.
“Our organization has suffered over the last year and a half due to the choices some of us have made. We have to live with that. The only thing we can do now is move forward, make new investments to climb back on our feet, and flourish.”
He tapped his thumb on the table, wanting to be sure he had everyone’s attention before he continued.
“Mikhail has gone back to homeland and cannot act as Pakhan from there. Therefore, it was agreed that I would take his place by the counsel.”
There was no reason to argue since it was a moot point after the decision had been made, so only a couple frowned. Mishca had expected it. He didn’t expect anyone to agree with someone as young as Mishca to lead an organization that was older than he was, but they would accept it.
“If this is a problem for you, or you think to challenge my rule, the door is there”—he pointed over his shoulder—“but know that you will not live to see another day if you do. Act against me, you will die. It is simple.”
He sat forward, folding his hands on the table. “And if any of you think to go after my wife, the
re is no where that I cannot find you. You will die, painfully. Consider this your warning.”
Mishca left the house only a short while later, driving back into the city. Alone in his car, he let himself think of his time with Vlad, even if that time had been a lie. He missed him, just as much as he had missed Lauren in her months away from him. The only problem was that Lauren had come back to him. Vlad never would.
Things would be vastly different at this point, now that he had to rework the structure of the Bratva in its entirety. New positions would need to be handed out, and he would have to decide who he wanted in his corner…besides Luka. He hadn’t spoken to him since the motel, but that didn’t mean he planned on demoting him.
He was the best at his job, and Mishca couldn’t fault him for doing it. One thing he would have to learn how to do was to keep his personal feelings out of it.
Climbing out of his car, Mishca tossed his keys to one of his associates—who was currently working as a valet for his building—nodding to the women at the front desk who smiled in his direction.
He took the elevator up to the penthouse, unbuttoning his jacket as he entered, hanging it up on the rack on his way.
Lauren was in the kitchen, her head stuck in the refrigerator as she rifled through one of the drawers. He smiled at the sight of her, humming beneath her breath. He cleared his throat, making her spin around in surprise.
From the first day he had seen her, he knew she would be it for him. He didn’t know why, he didn’t know how, but he couldn’t deny how he felt.
Her face split into a wide grin as she looked at him. He didn’t think he had seen her this happy in a long time, but now that they were here, free of the past, he would make sure she was smiling all the time.
“You have your meeting?” She asked coming around the island toward him.
“I did.” Before she could ask him about it, he tugged her forward, shutting her up with a kiss.
She melted beneath him, smiling against his lips for a second. “We never did get to take that honeymoon,” Lauren said as she wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him. “Now might be a good time.”
The Final Hour Page 31
