“That’s disgusting.”
“With a cauliflower crust.”
“What a bait and switch! That’s ruining the whole point of pizza. Why not just have a salad, for god’s sake?”
“Because I had a salad for lunch.”
“Of course you did. Your addiction to vegetables is out of control.”
With the menu in one hand, she dials the restaurant with the other. “Having your parents call you ‘Chunky Monkey’ your entire childhood leaves scars, sis. Still dealing with the fallout.”
I stand and hug her from behind, resting my head on her shoulder as she orders the kale-and-cauliflower pizza.
I know it’ll be awful.
I’ll eat it anyway.
Kage isn’t the only one I’m a ride or die for.
A pang of heartache has me missing him so much, it leaves me breathless. As Sloane reads her credit card number to the pizza place, I slip my phone out of my pocket and send Kage a text.
Then I finish my glass of wine and pour another, trying not to think about what he might be doing right now.
Whatever it is, it doesn’t involve me.
And it probably isn’t good.
31
Kage
When the text comes through, I’m standing in the middle of a frigid warehouse in the Lower East Side, surrounded by nineteen armed and dangerous Russians.
I hope it’s my girl. I need something good tonight.
Ignoring the chiming from the inside pocket of my overcoat, I continue.
“Shut down everything immediately. Nothing gets through unless it’s ours. The ports, the borders, incoming flights and scheduled shipments from everywhere to everywhere. I want them to feel the pressure. Make it impossible for them to do business. When the money dries up, they’ll be more amenable to another meeting. Then we’ll let the hammer drop. Get the word out to all your captains and soldiers that we’re at war. Peacetime rules are suspended.”
I look at each man in the circle in turn. All of them lethal. All of them loyal. Every one of them ready to kill or die, depending on the word from me.
Though the orders are issued from Max, I’m the one who dispenses them. The king’s hands and mouth, I rule in his absence.
And I rule with an iron fist.
“What happened on Christmas Eve is a wake-up call. Our partnerships with the other families have been going too smoothly. It’s made them bold. It’s time to remind them who we are, and why we’re in charge.”
I direct my attention to one of the men standing across from me. He’s burly, with a shaved head and a scar that runs from his left eyebrow down to his jaw. The head of the Chicago Bratva, he’s unfailingly loyal. And as vicious as they come.
“Pavel, there’s a big shipment of Asif’s livestock headed your way. Make sure it doesn’t arrive.”
He nods, not needing to be told that the cows he’ll be hijacking have up to a hundred pounds each of Asif’s cocaine carefully packed in their intestines.
I turn to another member of the circle, an older man with a long beard, crazy eyes, and discolored teeth. His real name is Oleg, but everyone calls him the Cannibal due to his fondness for carving open the chest of every man he kills and taking a bite of his bloody heart.
They don’t call him that to his face, of course.
No one is that stupid.
“Oleg, Zhou’s containers arrive at the docks in Miami tomorrow evening. The police should get there first.”
“I’d like to keep one of the girls.”
The men around the circle exchange looks, but I don’t take my gaze from Oleg’s leering face.
“No. We don’t touch the merchandise.”
“Pavel gets to keep the cocaine! What do I get?”
“To keep breathing. Disobey me on this, and you won’t.”
He bares his teeth, hissing. But I know he wants to stay head of the Miami family more than he wants one of the kidnapped container girls, so we won’t have a problem. I move on.
“Ivan, Rodriguez has a dozen body packers on a flight into LAX from Mexico City. I’ll get you the details. Pick them up as soon as they clear customs.”
“And after we extract the product?”
He wants to know what to do with the bodies. “Make sure Rodriguez sees his dead drug mules on the evening news.”
Everyone chuckles. Not only do they enjoy the idea of pissing off the arrogant head of the Sinaloa cartel, they can’t wait to see what grotesque display Ivan will make with the bodies.
He’s got a reputation for creativity in that respect.
“Aleksander.”
“Yes, Pakhan?”
I pause, caught off guard by the honorific.
Everyone else is surprised, too, shifting their weight from foot to foot and glancing at each other, waiting to see how I’ll respond.
There isn’t a choice, however. As long as Max is alive, I’m not Pakhan, the “big boss.” He is.
I’ll be sending a clear message that I’m disloyal to our leader and intend to take the throne for myself if I accept Aleksander’s mistake.
Unless it wasn’t a mistake.
Maybe it was a test.
And maybe the test originated from someone much smarter than Aleksander.
My stare freezing and my tone deadly soft, I say, “On your knees.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
In a five-thousand-dollar silk suit, handmade shoes, and an overcoat spun from the wool of baby Tibetan antelopes, he silently sinks to his knees on the cold cement floor of the warehouse.
Then he waits, along with everyone else. Clouds of steam from his breath turn white in the frigid night air.
“Empty your pockets.”
He swallows. Digging into his overcoat pockets, he produces a cell phone and a folded wad of hundred-dollar bills. He tosses them to the floor, then reaches inside his suit jacket. Soon, a handgun, a folding knife, a ballpoint pen, and a small comb follow the money and phone to the floor.
The last thing he takes out is a pair of pliers.
He’s about to toss that onto the pile, too, but I say, “Wait.”
He freezes. His gaze flashes up to mine.
I see fear in his eyes, but also resignation.
He already knows what I’m going to ask him to do.
“One of the front ones. And don’t get it fixed. I want your disrespect to Maxim to be visible to everyone.”
He exhales. He looks at the pliers in his hand.
Then he clamps the metal prongs around one of his bicuspids and tears it out.
It’s a prolonged, bloody process. The other men watch with varying degrees of boredom and interest. Pavel checks his watch. Oleg licks his lips. When it’s over, Aleksander is panting and the breast of his suit is soaked in blood.
I gesture for him to stand.
He does, spitting blood onto the floor.
“As I was saying. Our Armenian friend, Mr. Kurdian, has a freighter packed with AKs and ammo arriving into the Port of Houston in two days. The arms will go onto a train headed for Boise. Derail the train. The bigger the explosion, the better.”
He nods. His face is pale and he’s sweating, but he won’t make a peep of pain or show disobedience in any way.
Normally, that would please me. Right now, it just makes me tired.
After spending a week in Natalie’s arms, this life I lead tastes sour.
I give the rest of the men their instructions. When that’s done, I dismiss them. They vanish into the shadows of the warehouse, headed back to their families and territories, spread out all across the US.