In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(45)

He flicked the top, watching the flame flicker and dance momentarily before snuffing it. It only took three times of this repetitive action for the door to open, slamming against the wall as the two men, no older than their late teens, came barreling outside, coming up short when they caught sight of him.

Mishca scanned them quickly, noting the matching tattoos on their arms, Irish flags with a skull imbedded in the image, a date beneath them.

They weren’t Irish Mob, at least not officially—otherwise they wouldn’t be foolish enough to come after him with anything less than an army—but Mishca had a good idea as to who pulled their strings. Sighing, he pocketed his lighter, knowing this was going to end soon.

The two might have been brothers. Both had similar features, same nose and eye color, but the younger of the two seemed a bit more wary of Mishca as he shifted on his feet, sticking towards the back as his brother sauntered forward cockily.

The older one, with mousy brown hair and a runny nose withdrew an older style gun, his movements jerky. As he stepped into a patch of moonlight, Mishca could see that his pulse were the size of saucers, no doubt the effects of drugs, cocaine if he had to guess.

Wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve, he pointed the gun at Mishca, not realizing his hand was shaking so badly that he might as well not have been pointing the gun at all. He smiled like a madman. “I’ll be legendary,” he muttered, probably thinking Mishca hadn’t heard him.

“Not in the way you imagine, I wager,” Mishca responded as he placed his hands in his pants’ pockets, still at ease.

Blondie stepped forward, expecting Mishca to flinch as the barrel of the gun came into contact with his chest, but if there was one thing that Mikhail had instilled in him, it was to never back down.

If you face death at the hands of your enemies, do not cower, do not beg, but smile and welcome him like an old friend.

The idea of that had always terrified him. He never wanted to die, at least not bloody like some of the men that had been at the other end of his gun. He swore to himself that he would never beg for anything.

Blondie scoffed, instead shifting the gun so that it was pressed against Mishca’s forehead. “You think I won’t shoot you?”

He didn’t have to call his bluff, mainly because if he was going to shoot him, he would have done it by now. Why did they insist on talking it out?

Mishca grinned slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vlad and two of his men with their guns drawn, two pointed at the brother’s head, one at the blonde.

Mishca arched a brow, gesturing with a nod of his head behind Blondie, who was actually dumb enough to turn and look. Waiting a heartbeat, Mishca struck out, grabbing the man’s index finger and breaking it before disarming him with relative ease. He slammed the butt of it against the man’s head, sending him to his knees on the pavement.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Mishca apologized. “It seems we are out of time.”

Blondie sputtered, struggling to pick himself up. “Shoo—” He paused as he realized they were outnumbered, and not by teenagers that had stolen their father’s gun. He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he looked back to Mishca. The desperation was clear in his eyes.

“L-Look, I don’t…we didn’t…”

“Save it.” Mishca held the gun by his side. “Begging won’t help you now.”

The brother must have known what was about to happen because he began protesting softly, but was cut off when Vlad stuffed a dirty cloth into his mouth, muffling his sounds of protest.

Striking out with his foot, he kicked Blondie backwards until he was nearly next to his brother. He pointed. “Gag him.”

If they had merely come to confront him, then maybe Mishca might have had leniency. Accepted it as their twisted idea of initiation—it happened more often now that Mishca was putting in more work. He didn’t get his position because he was the son of the Pakhan, but because he earned it. Once those stars were over his heart, Mishca had put in ten times the effort, knowing that he would need to prove himself to those that thought his stars were a birthright.

Now? He was respected and he couldn’t let two idiots like these ruin that. Lessons had to be taught.

“Bring him.”

Vlad and John wrestled the little brother forward until he was kneeling in front of his brother, facing him, their expressions mirroring one another.

No two men were the same when they faced possible execution. Some begged and pleaded, trying to bargain their way out of it, promising obscene amounts of money or anything their executioner could want. Others stood—or kneeled in this instance—already accepting their fate, but there was still that fear in their eyes, and even some regret. These two? They cared more for one another and Mishca would use that.

“Give my regards to Declan.”

Shifting his aim by a couple of inches, he shot the younger brother in the shoulder, the momentum of the bullet throwing him backwards. He hit the ground hard, groaning in agony behind the gag, but at least he was alive.

Blondie groaned in protest, lurching to get to him, but Vlad held fast, holding him steady. The younger brother’s shirt was already darkening with blood, the saturation quickly growing by the second.

“Don’t worry,” Mishca said conversationally as he wiped the gun clean of any prints with the tail end of his shirt. “Your brother will live, but he needs to see a doctor.”