Page 11 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)
"Let her go, Grisha," I growl. "Or I'll fucking kill you."
Grisha just laughs. His knee digs deeper into Amara's back. He starts winding up the leash and gives it a yank so that her head jerks up. She cries out again, and tears begin streaming down her face, leaving thick black lines of mascara smearing across the garish makeup she's forced to wear.
"Not before I kill her first," he spits. "So why don't you just stand the fuck up, turn yourself around, and get the fuck out of here while Killian and I talk business."
From the corner of my eyes, I catch Killian's jaw clenching at Grisha's obvious disregard for protocol and decorum. The amusement that Killian had is now replaced annoyance, and that annoyance is quickly giving way to very real rage.
Grisha, that idiot, just keeps looking around at me, at Roma, and even at Vassily. But none of us reacts. We stay seated and continue staring at him.
"You think I'm fucking around?" He roars.
Is this idiot really interpreting our silence and stillness as disbelief?
"Grisha…" Killian growls.
BANG!
The sound echoes through the club, followed immediately by screams. Patrons dive under tables, dancers scramble off stages, and the music cuts abruptly.
Amara shrieks.
Even Killian grimaces at the sound of the gunshot.
Grisha holds the gun up in the air, its barrel still smoking, as he looks at me with a wild, almost animalistic look in his eyes. Then, he presses the hot barrel back against Amara's head.
"The next one is going in her pretty little head."
I give Killian a quick look and his eyes meet mine. There's a flash of something else there, his own personal disgust at Grisha's disrespect towards him.
And then he gives an almost imperceptible nod.
Message received.
I raise my hands slowly, palms out. "Fine, Grisha. You win." I do my best to make my voice sound defeated and hollow. "I'm leaving."
Grisha's eyes narrow with suspicion, but I can see the triumph starting to bloom across his face. Slowly, he pulls the gun barrel away from Amara's head, just enough that I can breathe again.
"That's right, you fucking bitch," he sneers, his knee still pressing into Amara's back.
"Run home to your whore. And when we're done here, I'll send you pictures of all the fun we had with her little sister.
" His lips curl into something grotesque.
"Maybe I'll even send you pictures while we take turns—"
I don't let him finish.
In one fluid motion, I pivot and launch my foot directly into Grisha's face. There's a sickening crunch as my shoe connects with his nose and cheekbone. Blood sprays in an arc across the floor.
Roma and Vassily spring up beside me at once. Roma throws himself forward, grabs Grisha's hand holding the gun, and give it a hard twist to force the weapon out of his fingers.
Vassily grabs a whiskey glass, smashes it against the table edge, and drives the jagged remains into Grisha's other hand. Grisha howls in agony as the glass slices through tendons and veins.
His fingers spasm open and releases the leash.
With his free hand, Vassily yanks Amara back behind him, shielding her with his body.
Roma passes the gun to me, and I aim it directly at Grisha's bleeding face.
The clicking of multiple weapons being cocked echoes through the club. I glance up to see we're surrounded. Every man in the club has drawn their weapon. Bouncers, bartenders, even some of the patrons.
And every single gun is pointed at us.
I stare down at Grisha's bloodied face, and feel satisfaction blooming when fear replacing the cockiness on his face.
I shrug out of my jacket with one arm and hold it behind me. Vassily takes it from me and drapes it over Amara's shoulders.
Fabric rustles as she shrinks under the jacket. Then, I turn to face Killian, lowering the gun as I do.
"I told you, I just want the girl. Nothing else."
Killian's face is unreadable as he studies the scene before him. His jaw works for a moment before he extends his hand.
"The gun please, Baryshev."
I hand it over without hesitation. Once the weapon is in his possession, Killian makes a casual gesture with his free hand. The tension in the room dissipates as his men lower their weapons.
Two burly Irishmen stride forward and grab Grisha by the arms, hauling him to his feet. Blood drips from his shattered nose and glass-impaled hand.
"Are you serious about what you said?" Killian asks. "Is the girl really family?"
"Yes," I say firmly. "That's my wife's sister."
Killian looks down at Grisha with disgust, then back at me.
"And this is why I never wanted to do deals with you Russian pricks," he tells Grisha. "Too unpredictable. Too much fucking ego." His eyes find mine again. "I'm guessing that's also why you didn't want to fucking marry his sister."
"Correct," I confirm.
A hint of respect crosses Killian's face. "Glad to see that you have some fucking respect for my authority on my own turf."
"There are still some Russians who understand the meaning of the word honor," I reply evenly.
"So it seems." Killian nods slowly, then nudges Grisha's head with the gun. "What do you want to do with him?"
I think about how badly I want to put a bullet between Grisha's eyes right here. Right now. The satisfaction of watching his blood spill across Killian's tacky club floor would be fucking sublime.
But then I remember what Indigo said before I set out.
I want him to die, and I want him to see me when he does. Bring my sister back. And if you can, bring Grisha as well.
She deserves that satisfaction after what this piece of shit tried to do to her and her sister.
"I want to take him with me," I tell Killian, nodding at Grisha's pathetic, bleeding form. "So my wife can teach him some fucking manners."
Killian's eyebrows shoot up, and then he bursts into laughter. It's a rough, whiskey-soaked sound that fills the tense silence of the club.
He shakes his head, still chuckling. "Your wife sounds like a formidable woman."
"You have no fucking idea," I reply, thinking of my blue-haired britvochka who shot this bastard in the leg and escaped a moving train.
All while pregnant.
Killian considers for a moment, then nods. "Fine by me."
He gestures toward Grisha.
"But you should know... this piece of shit came here with the girl as a gift. He was offering me a chunk of your territories in Inwood. Said the Volkovs were planning to take it and have no interest holding onto it."
I know what Killian is doing.
He's offering me up valuable intelligence about the Volkovs' next target. But I also know that this information won't come for free.
"What do you want in exchange?" I ask directly.
"I've always liked Brighton Beach." Killian smiles, revealing a row of crooked teeth.
"Love the restaurants. Love the people, especially the girls.
" He pauses. "Russian men look like pigs, and somehow you have these supermodels hanging on your arms. Almost every one of my top-performing girls goes home there after work.
I don't want them traveling so far. Bad for business if they get into. .. mishaps along the way."
You greedy bastard.
Brighton Beach has been bratva territory for decades, ever since the first Russian speaking immigrant landed there. And when the Soviet Union collapsed, it was the bratvas that helped facilitate the tens of thousands of new families that came flooding to these shores.
Giving the Irish a foothold there would destabilize the old families' influence. Reduce the very essence of the old neighborhoods that so many of us still hold in the fond memories of childhood.
But Killian is still holding the gun.
"I don't have much choice, do I?"
"We all have choices, Baryshev," Killian replies. "Some are just shittier than others. Like you, I am also a businessman, and I see an opportunity for business with someone who I hope one day I might call a friend."
"When I'm done settling the score with the Volkovs." I nod slowly. "Their old holdings in Brighton Beach are yours. Does that work for you? Friend?"
He rises to his feet, gives the gun to one of his men nearby, and extends a hand towards me.
I take it and give it a firm shake. "Deal."
"Khorosho," he mispronounces the word as his smile widens.