the moment, is it? You’re here to discuss business, eh? Let’s discuss.”
“We’ve done good business together,” Kaz said, tapping his fingers against the arm of his seat.
“One-point-two million last quarter because of that arms deal, but who’s counting?”
He didn’t doubt the proceeds were as high as Alfie said—no one could do numbers like him. “And you understand why I can’t have my business tied with those who would try to take it from me.”
“Right, because you’re the—fucking hell, what’s the name your people call it—pakhan?”
Alfie wasn’t a man who was careful with his words so as not to offend—most of the time he was trying to offend someone—but Kaz had learned it was just that accent of his, Cockney he thought it was called. So he knew better than to let Alfie’s words get to him, but he could already tell by the way the other man was sitting a little straighter that his temper was flaring.
“I am. You know what that means.”
Alfie rubbed his jaw. “I know fuck all about your politics, mate—and I don’t care to know. Whatever feud you lot have against the other means nothing to me.” Alfie rested an elbow on his desk, pointing at Kaz. “Because while you two fuck about, money is lost in the process.”
“But as you said,” Kaz spoke up, already feeling that rush of annoyance overtake him. “That has fuck all to do with you.”
“Yet there you sit, in my fucking chair like a big man, expecting me to sever business arrangements for the sake of your fucking vendetta.”
The tension in the room was escalating, to the point that before he knew it, Kaz was on his feet. “There comes a time when you have to pick sides, Alfie.”
“Fuck off,” Alfie returned, slowly rising from his chair, his eyes blazing as he laid his fists against the wood. “Even if I were, who’s to say I’m picking your fucking side, Kazimir? The only thing your Bratva has shown me over the last year is that you care more about domestic bullshit than how to conduct business. I expected it from that cunt you call a father, but you were supposed to be better than that, yet here you stand.”
“Don’t insult me again. You won’t like how I answer.”
Whether he considered Alfie a friend was immaterial—it was a lesson Kaz had to learn. Respect was earned, not given. And if he wanted to keep it, that meant never letting someone insult him without consequence.
“And what exactly would you do about it? Run off to that fucking brother of yours, though I think he knows how to better handle a cock before a gun. Or maybe to the fucking Gallucci you have warming your bed—perhaps she’ll be worth more in name besides what she can do with her mou—”
Kaz had his gun out and pointed at Alfie’s face before he could finish the sentence. “Finish,” he said, his gaze never straying from Alfie. “Give me the opportunity to show you what it truly means to not give a fuck who you have to kill when it comes to the woman you love. Test me.”
No one, and he truly meant no one, pulled a gun on Alfie and lived to tell about it. He took the action as an act of war.
“This meeting can end one of two ways,” Kaz went on, aim never wavering. “Either we sit and discuss the new business arrangements between us if you agree to sever your ties with the Gallucci family, or I can leave and sever our own. We can either remain partners, or I’ll leave with you as my enemy, and they don’t last long. Make your choice.”
Alfie neither moved nor spoke, his expression unreadable. After another heartbeat of silence, Kaz was sure he had his answer, but then Alfie smiled.
“Then let’s discuss.”
Only Alfie could remain unbothered that a gun was in his face.
As Kaz put his gun away and took a seat, he remembered something Alfie had once told him around the time they met.
He respected the bold.
Being twenty-one—almost twenty-two—Violet figured she could handle sixteen-year-old twins.
Surely.
She had been sixteen not that long ago, after all.
She was wrong.
Dina and Nika Markovic were like identical hurricanes when focused on something in particular, especially if that something was shopping, apparently.
“Gold and black?” Nika asked.
“Classic,” Dina replied.
Violet was tempted to hide behind the display cabinet of vases as she said, “Less basic, please.”
“Basic?”
The word had been practically screeched—though it came from two different tenors. Despite how identical the