INSIDE THE WEAPONS BUNKER deep beneath The Cat and the Sickle nightclub, I carefully inspected a dozen crates that contained a carefully organized mix of assault rifles and grenade launchers. Tomorrow night I’d meet with a Sicilian don to make the gun trade, and I was all about preparation for the potential new Cosa Nostra cash cow.
If this foreign family even attempted to double-cross me, I’d use those very same weapons to fucking destroy them.
One never knew.
The same had happened more than once with the Irish.
Now our two families were related by marriage.
Just one part of the unpredictability of this life.
“Da.” I nodded to the three Zolotov Bratva soldiers who awaited my orders. “Looks good.”
“Spasibo, Arkady.” One of the guards bent his head toward me, and his comrades hurried to close the crates.
No other words needed to be exchanged. Not when I was the underboss of this outfit.
Every single Zolotov soldier knew his existence depended on unwavering allegiance. If there’d been questions before—unlikely—there sure as hell weren’t any now. Not after my middle brother Kirill had beheaded the Bratva guard who’d sold him out to the Yakuza.
I left the men to it, making my way through the extensive basement toward the stairs of this secret, highly secure area of the compound.
All was hushed and quiet except for the ringing of my shoes on the steps until I pressed my finger against a panel and a door opened to quickly close behind me.
A vastly different atmosphere dominated the club compared to the catacombs below.
While music thumped loudly, I merely had to glance at the closest bartender as I sidled up to the bar and a glass of ice-cold vodka swiftly arrived.
I took a swallow, colorful arrays of lights slicing across the air, gleaming off the expensive décor, highlighting the men and women packed into the high-dollar nightclub we ran as part of our business.
After the Irish shootout in June, there’d been no more attacks on the establishment, but life had not been boring.
Busy as usual, The Sickle boasted a slick venue. I knew there was probably a line around the block outside, patrons hoping to get inside before we closed for another night. It was early September in Boston—a city filled with tourist attractions, arty museums, prestigious universities . . . and an entire underground world of mafias from the Irish, the Italians, the Yakuza, and us.
The Russians.
After finishing my drink, I moved across the main floor and in and out of dancers, surveying the customers as well as the service workers and our soldiers.
While the waitresses and bartenders entertained and clubgoers partied, guards wearing menacing expressions performed stealthy, unblinking reconnaissance for anything out of the ordinary.
Satisfied all was well, I opened the door into a private hallway and spotted Grigor coming inside from the loading area. He humped about a thousand pounds of luggage on his back and wheeled more suitcases behind him.
A fleeting smile lifted my lips.
Grigor’s appearance and the monstrous load of baggage he lugged along meant Kirill and Joanna had returned from their honeymoon.
Catching sight of me, Grigor grinned.
I quickly ducked back into the bar. I had no wish to get in the newlyweds’ way. Their love vibes might be contagious, and I wasn’t looking to get attached to anyone or let anything come between me and my place as Yury Zolotov’s second in command.
I vowed I wouldn’t fall into the same trap my middle brother had.
Marriage was not my idea of fun. Women were playthings only, meant to be seen and not heard unless screaming with pleasure and coming on my cock.
Women were to be discarded once the fucking finished.
My sole purpose was to bring in money, maintain control, and keep the Zolotov Bratva at the top of the black-market business. Fuck anything else.
Kirill could have Joanna—the feisty Irish redhead. But he still had a job to do, and his heart had better not get in the way of performing his duties as our enforcer.
I’d grudgingly accepted his choice of wife as long as she continued to mind the rules laid down for her. I appreciated her brothers’ help during the summer’s deadly dealings. I’d especially enjoyed my part in helping to dust the Irish O’Sullivan’s father. Adding kills to the tally was never a bad thing as long as one kept a cool head.
As I stalked through The Sickle’s high voltage crowd, I spotted one of Joanna’s brothers entering from the street. Lucky, the oldest, met my gaze and tipped his head in my direction. Yet