Page 22 of Mafia and Scars

Leon spending time with Geliy is good though. Or so I’ve told myself these last three weeks. Trying to see the positive in a situation doesn’t make me weak or a pushover. It’s a quiet strength. One that makes me who I am.

My thoughts keep racing though. Despite how hard I try to grab on to the good things rather than the bad. I can’t shake how my gut tightens into knots, and it has nothing to do with the turbulence. The last text I had from Geliy was particularly short. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either. It just felt a little off. Maybe he was busy with something—because nine-month-olds are a lot of work. I want to givehim the benefit of the doubt, but I can’t shake the unease settling in me.

And I know that the sooner we’re back in Vegas, the sooner I can check and make sure my son is just as healthy and happy as when I boarded the plane with Sofia.

CHAPTER SEVEN

VIKTOR

The ocean air in L.A. is a big change from the arid air of Nevada right now. I lean against the SUV, arms folded over my chest, as we wait in the darkness for the cargo ship to pull in.

My earpiece crackles as my team of men checks in with me like clockwork. This is how it’s supposed to be. Organized and well-oiled.

Beats being at the house right now. Geliy and Leon have disrupted my entire routine. When the kid cries, it’s way too loud. And Geliy, the idiot, does nothing effective to soothe him.

I shake my head, focusing on the task at hand as the dock workers wave the ship in. Fourteen shipping containers. Two are ours, and I intend to make sure we get the goods we’ve promised the Russian government.

Grigory was smart to strike the deal. They’re always looking for top-of-the-line weapons. The kind that we seem to have a knack for procuring from our contacts in South America.

“Viktor,” one of my men, Yuri, says to me. He jerks his head toward one of our shipping containers.

I push from the side of the SUV as I stalk forward toward the crates. “It’s all there?” I keep my gaze on the dock worker with the shipping list as he sweats under pressure.

“Y-yes,” he stutters.

I give the signal for the guys to crack the crates open with crowbars.

One by one, they give me the okay before moving on to the next crates to check them too.

“Good.” My eyes flick back to the worker with the list before I push past him to get a better look. Each crate is filled with ammunition and rifles. Good rifles. The kind that Russian military brass salivates to get.

I nod to my men who cover the crates once more and begin to lug them to our SUVs and trucks. There, I’ll take a closer look without the prying eyes of the dock workers who are no doubt keen to see what a bunch of burly men in black and with inked skin could want from them at eleven at night.

“We’re all good, boss?” another one of my guys, Igor, asks.

I lift a gun, inspecting it closer. It looks clean, sleek, and well put together. No serial number. I tumble the piece in my hands, feeling the weight of it. It’s light but not too light to feel wrong in my hands. The scope is precise too. I study it, making a note to talk with Grigory and Matvey about getting some for our own men. “All good,” I clip. I lower the gun back into the crate and step away from the men as they start to pack up the crates. Then…

Boom!

A flash. A thunderous blast splits the night wide open. Smoke hisses from a shipping container twenty feet away. And a wave rocks the ground beneath me. My ears ring. Crates splinter. And then gunfire.

My hand moves automatically to my gun.

I hear shouts over the earpiece from my men getting into formation.

Then we move.

I dive behind a steel drum just as bullets tear through the air where I stood a second ago. Sparks fly as rounds ricochet off metal. Yuri swears and drops beside me, pulling his weapon.

“Seven of them,” he growls, eyes narrowed. “Maybe more.”

“Then we make it six,” I snap.

I rise just enough to fire, squeezing off two sharp shots.

One body drops near the forklift, twitching. The others scatter for cover, yelling as they go.

My heart pounds, cold and focused. I move low, weaving between crates, flanking right. I catch one in a blind spot and don’t hesitate. One clean shot to the chest. Then he’s down.