brewery a few blocks away from where he and Dmitri Zolin, his right hand—who’d just so eloquently voiced his impatience—stood in the shadows. They were hidden from sight in the entrance of a rundown apartment building across the street from where Viktor Baikov’s current mistress lived. Further evidence the man was a total jackass; he more than had the means to put her up somewhere nicer.
Viktor had gone into the building nearly two hours ago for his biweekly fuck, and it was time for him to come back out and get what was coming to him.
Equal treatment.
A life lost for a life taken.
In the Baikovs’ case, it had been six lives to Kathryn’s one—the extras necessary to keep Eva’s identity from being shared.
“Maks better be on the mark with this one,” Dmitri added, rolling his shoulders. “Otherwise we’ve wasted a dickload of time and materials here.”
The continued use of their mother tongue was comforting to Vasily. “You’re well aware he doesn’t get much wrong,” he chastised, injecting just the right amount of censure in his tone. It was a sin to verbalize doubt in one of their own’s abilities. Backstabbing and undermining were not accepted within Vasily’s faction. It couldn’t be prevented entirely, but if he heard it firsthand, he put an end to it. Much more forcefully than he’d just done. But this was Dmitri.
“Of course I am.” Dmitri’s whisper mingled with the sound of a couple of drunks happily singing a block away. “But would it be too much to ask for one fuckup to hang over the guy’s swelled head? Just one, and I’ll be content.”
Seemed he’d be left wanting. Because Maksim Kirov, another of Vasily’s favorites, didn’t allow for fuckups. Ever. He was in control. Always. Dominated everything he did. And everyone, or so Vasily heard.
They snapped to attention when Maks’s intel did indeed prove accurate and Viktor Baikov appeared on the sidewalk at the top of the hour. The feud between the Tarasovs and Baikovs had existed as far back as Vasily could remember. No one knew what started it, but a continuous tit-for-tat—hit-for-hit—which included the violent and brutal public gunning down of Vasily’s father, was what kept it alive.
Until now.
Vasily’s hatred of the Baikov’s had found a new root. One that was rotted and decaying, surrounded by rancid soil. He couldn’t wait for the retaliation he knew would follow this trail of death he’d created. One that had no end in sight. For the first time in his life, he was looking forward to it. He…needed it.
Viktor, grandson to the original Pakhan of the Baikov syndicate, took a long, leisurely gander around the shadowy street before he got his ass in gear and ambled down the litter-strewn sidewalk. As he passed a beat-up Citroën and an early 1990s Audi, Vasily wondered if it was stupidity or arrogance that led to the asshole being out on his own. Not a byki in sight.
“Keep moving.”
Dmitri’s whisper was barely audible as they watched their final target slow next to a shit-brown Lada and…fuuuck…
But rather than pull a set of keys from his pocket, Viktor came out with a cell. The tension of the moment was interrupted by Vasily’s own phone vibrating in his pocket. Shit. Now Gabriel could talk? He dug it out and put it to his ear.
“Da,” he whispered. They were far enough away that Baikov couldn’t possibly hear, but he still intended to hurry the convo along.
“Vasily.”
He frowned when the voice in his ear wasn’t Gabriel’s but another that still held the hint of a Romanian accent. “I can’t talk, Lucian. I’ll call you back.” He hung up and dropped the phone into his pocket just to have it vibrate again. With a hard jam of his hand, he snatched it out again. “I’m about to—”
“Bury your daughter alongside her mother?”
An icy layer formed over Vasily’s skin. “Not if I can help it,” he ground out, knowing better than to ask Lucian how he knew about Kathryn and Eva. The Romanian, like all of them, would never reveal a source. Though, Vasily was tempted. If the information had been shared by someone in his bratva, getting a name could possibly aid him in finding the snitch in their midst. Because they definitely had one. And that dead man was close to Vasily. Close enough to have access to Vasily’s home and his personal files. Which was how the Baikovs had received the intel on Kathryn and Eva—bank records showed deposits made into Kathryn’s account