The Beast of Moscow - Bethany-Kris Page 0,1

look too far into it.”

God knew Vaslav had absorbed too much.

“What was the bet?” Vaslav asked.

Rolling his eyes as Vaslav produced a small, gold pocketknife from his pocket, the Frenchman admitted, “That you couldn’t be as bad as they said; even a beast can laugh.”

Well, he earned a chuff, at least.

For that.

Piercing the balloon with the tip of the small blade, Vaslav dropped Pierre’s gaze but only to see the perfectly milled, white powder that came out on the blade. As fast as the cocaine was there, it disappeared on his tongue when he lifted the knife and licked the substance away.

Instantly, his tongue went numb. He rolled it around his gums to get the same effect in seconds. It was pure, but he figured ...

“Someone went through the trouble of making sure it was extra fine for me,” he noted.

“Well—”

“Tell Mario we will begin a conversation about importing his product for my distribution. I will want it coming in as close to Moscow as possible, hmm? No fucking around—he’s to make the call to me before the end of the month. He should have heard by now, I’m all about the details, yes?”

Pierre dragged in a heavy breath and took the balloon back when Vaslav offered it between the leather seats. The cocaine disappeared into his pocket once more, only a bit of spilled powder remained on the carpeted floor. “They say you don’t like working with Italians.”

Vaslav’s lips pursed into a fleeting grimace. “What good Russian does?”

“Oui,” Pierre replied quickly, “I’m happy to make a split being the go-between. Everybody likes peace.”

That time, Vaslav chuckled. The prick almost earned himself the laugh he’d bet he could win. Fortunately for the Frenchman, because when Vaslav laughed ... horrible things almost always followed.

“No, everybody likes money,” Vaslav eventually said, shrugging under the lightweight of his red silk dress shirt. “Peace is sometimes the necessary evil we resort to in order to get what we want.”

Pierre didn’t have a chance to respond before the passenger door on the left side of the limo was wrenched open without warning. Midday light spilled into the rear of the vehicle, illuminating a sliver of yellow color across the black carpet and the leather shoes of both men.

It seemed his counterpart hadn’t heard the front passenger side door open or close, never mind the figure of a man rounding the vehicle.

“What in the hell—”

“Get out,” Igor uttered, his shadow blocking the light as he came to stand in the open door. Despite being shorter than Vaslav by only two inches, the leader of the obshchak side of his bratva’s organization was still an impressive sight standing at his full six-foot-six height. With shoulders as wide as a barrel, he easily filled the space leaning inside the vehicle, and one couldn’t miss Igor when he came strolling down the street. Pierre stilled, clearly unsure what he should do. “Out, I said. The meeting is over. You can walk back.”

Vaslav only smirked at the confused glance the Frenchman sent his way at the order.

“You can’t be serious. We drove for twenty minutes! My driver was waiting—”

“Don’t take it personally, Frenchman,” Vaslav replied as the guy was yanked out of the limo without grace or fanfare. At least, he was smart enough not to fight back. Igor was not known for his patience, but he had one hell of a punch. Igor climbed into the seat Pierre had vacated, and reached over to grab hold of the door, ready to swing it closed. He waited before doing so, just long enough for his boss to tell the flustered, scowling man outside, “This is simply how I like to handle my business. Take any complaints straight to hell—or better yet, take them back to that prick paying you in Italy. See how he likes it.”

Igor slammed the door shut, and the limo left Pierre standing in a cloud of hot dust on the dirt road along the canal. It took far too long for the air conditioning inside to catch up with the mugginess they’d allowed in for Vaslav’s liking, so he rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows and unbuttoned the third button just below his throat to give him some room to breathe.

Mid-July in Russia was peak travel time for tourists because it was also the hottest period of the year, and currently, the heatwave crawling through Moscow left Vaslav in a worse mood than normal.

“When’s Nico—”

“Ask him,” Vaslav uttered behind his clenched