Page 47 of Sexting My Bratva Boss
Whether or not I like the country doesn’t matter. It’s the perfect place for a warehouse, and the large building looms as the SUV turns down a dirt drive. In one week, it will be paved. In three, we’ll be moving high-end art through here for auctions. And housing black market items here as well, in the depths of the hidden rooms that only two men other than me know about.
The driver opens the door of the SUV, and I step out, Lev close behind, coming around from the passenger side. He stands just behind me, silent, watching. Interestingly, the country doesn’t seem to make him nervous the way it unsettles me.
“Right this way, Mr. Martynov.” A young man in a tailored but cheap suit gestures toward the main entrance, all steel and glass. I watch approvingly as he demonstrates impeccable manners. Inside, the manager of the warehouse, Antosha, greets us.
“Mr. Martynov. It’s a pleasure to have you visit in the final stages.”
Taking in the surroundings, I nod toward the young man, who disappears around a corner. “Is that the boy whose father died in an accident at the Dubai site?”
“Yes,” Antosha confirms.
“And he’s doing well?”
“He is. We’ve made sure he and his mother are well taken care of. He’s bright; sharp. He realizes that the physical labor his father took part in is not the way he wants to go.”
A sadness settles over me. Despite the violence of my occupation, it’s hard when any of our men die, in accidents or otherwise. “Make sure he’s taken to purchase a new suit. Or rather, four; and shoes. At my expense.”
Antosha half-bows. “Of course, Mr. Martynov. Come, we can go to my office.”
At the very back of the building it’s possible to hear—and see, through three large glass windows—the airstrip that will bring the illegal goods in. A clear-cut path through the woods is being prepared by workers, creating easy transport right to the warehouse.
“To what do I owe this visit?” Antosha asks, sitting only after I’m seated. Lev remains by the door, his eyes taking in every inch of the new surroundings.
“I’m changing the plans. This location will have a direct accountant to answer to. She will be working off site, and will handle payroll, payment for goods and transportation, revenue.”
Antosha nods, not questioning the oddity of having an accountant directly connected to this one warehouse. I could, if I wanted to, justify the choice: this will be one of the largest black-market houses on the east coast. We’re expecting revenue in the first year to touch just under five billion. As an auction house, handling the cash will be complicated.
And it will give Audrey something to do, something to own. A way to feel utilized and engage her sharp mind.
However, none of my choices need justification.
“I’m assuming someone will reach out to set up the particulars?”
“Yes. Miss Belov will be in touch.”
A flash of surprise crosses his face at the mention of Olena. Until now, I’ve let other managers handle the setup of this operation; handing it off to Olena means that it’s truly important. And that theaccountantis the important thing will not go unnoticed by Antosha. He’s smart and won’t say anything; won’t ask any questions.
He only nods.
We spend a few minutes on updates, going over the main purchases I want to focus on in the first three months, naming some families overseas who might be interested in what we can bring in from Canada’s west coast. Less than half an hour after arrival, Lev and I walk back toward the SUV.
In the car I put the privacy glass up. This phone call is not one I’m looking forward to, and it’s unusual for her to be the last to know of these changes.
I tap Olena’s name, and it rings only twice before she picks up silently.
“Olena. There’s been a change of plans to the Hudson Valley Auction House.” Filling her in on the details, keeping it short, I can sense the growing tension over the line.
“And who is this accountant?” she asks.
When I don’t answer, she continues: “So then, this is a play to keep your pet entertained.”
“Watch yourself, Olena,” I snarl. Nerves make me quick to anger. It’s been over a month since I made Audrey mine.
Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe Ican’thave an heir. Forty-eight looks good on me, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t affected certain… parts of me.
I end the call with Olena, but the anxiety still festers in me, making my skin itch. That voice from all those years ago keeps sounding in my head, whispering darkly:Why would you deserve it? Why should you have happiness? You are nothing, and you will have nothing to live for.