Page 9 of Mafia and Scars

PRESENT DAY

I love the heat here in Las Vegas. When Grigory finally took power from his father, the base of operations was in Vegas, so we all moved to the States. Can’t say I miss the bitter cold of the Russian winters, especially not after all the time I spent on the streets.

I stretch out my neck, both sides tight from how I slept, as I take in the grounds Grigory’s compound sits on.Ourcompound. The place we have affectionately nicknamed the Kremlin.

It doesn’t feel like that long ago we were hiding on the streets and waiting out in the cold—kids just trying to survive in a world hell bent on taking us out. From the streets of Moscow, we joined the military together and eventually went on to serve in the Russian special forces. There, we learned everything we needed to know anddeveloped valuable contacts before leaving to set up our own business. And now, we’re practically running the city of Vegas.

In all that time, some things have remained the same. Grigory is still in charge, analytical, and powerful. Matvey still has his nose buried in his spreadsheets and numbers. Nikolai still has that weird inclination for smelling like gasoline and gunpowder even after seven showers. And I’m also just the same—I still love the quiet, and I still hate to be touched.

I shake the thoughts away as I pull on my black workout clothes and sling my gym bag over my shoulder.

There’s not a single inch of color in my closet. Every item of clothing I own is black—and black only. The plain, dark color keeps my mind calm and keeps my senses from being overstimulated.

It’s still very early as I pass the office and hear Matvey and Nikolai disagreeing about something—they’re both early risers like me.

“We should ask Viktor, he’ll know,” I hear Matvey say.

I pause, waiting to see if either Matvey or Nikolai will seek me out. One heart beat. Then another.

“Nah, he’ll be heading to the gym around now. Plus Grigory would know better than anyone else,” Nikolai replies.

“But Viktor is the best at—” Their words fade into white noise as I head toward the door. They might be like brothers, the closest to brothers I’ll ever get in life and the closest people to me period, but I can’t do it right now. I can’t end some stupid squabble when all I need is peace and quiet.

I grip my bag and head out the door past the line of SUVs. Black, tinted, and unmarked. The fact that they blend into such a flashy town doesn’t even strike me as odd anymore like it once did. There are lots of similar SUVs wherever we go—celebrities or high rollers who come through the town, looking for a vice to bury themselves in.

I pass the greenhouse and round the corner toward the gym on the far left of the property. The biggest luxury of living this far out from the strip is the quiet, although it comes at a hefty price tag that Matvey no doubt has written down to the seventh decimal.

Some of the other men might complain about the heat, but I like it.The move was necessary. I know that we all know that. And so far, things have been working out for us on the business side.

The gym creates a long stretch of shade over the shrubs that line the walkway. It’s nothing fancy. Plain bricks and large windows.

I’m heading toward the door when something makes me suddenly stop.

My fist tightens on the strap of my bag as I catch sight of something metallic glittering from beneath the green foliage of a bush.

My teeth grit.

It’s trash. It’s not fucking hard to use the trash can! I don’t understand why people do this in the goddamn first place.

Just walk past it like everyone else. I can do that. I can just keep moving.I try to tell myself these things, but my feet remain planted on the sidewalk as I glare at the energy drinks and protein bar wrappers nestled into the bushes. The trash can isn’t more than five steps to my left.Five. Fucking. Steps.

My hand tightens and loosens around my bag strap as I war with myself to do what others clearly don’t care to do. On the fifth round of my hand clenching and unclenching, I storm toward the bushes, bag dropping to the ground with a thud so I can gather the trash. It’s not a lot, but it’s irksome. Enough that I can feel the irritation pulsing behind my eyes.Because I need everything to be in order and in its right place.

“How fucking hard is it?” I mutter as the trash flutters into the bin. “Idiots. All of them.”

Shoving open the doors to the gym, I freeze at the sight of a soldier working out.

Goddammit!

I come at this time because I’m always the only one here—and I need the calm and peace that only solitude can bring me.

“Good morning,” the soldier calls out to me in a cheery voice.

I can only manage a low growl in response. There’s nothing fucking good about this morning now.

I take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. And I start on the machine furthest away from him.

I try to tune him out, but every noise he makes is deafening. The soldier clinking the weights bar back onto the metal stand is as loud as cymbals clashing right next to my ears. His running on the treadmill sounds like a herd of elephants stampeding. Then the fucker switches on the radio, and although it’s probably on a low volume, it makes me feel like I’m in a hectic nightclub with deafening, thumping music.