In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(52)

The soft tap of expensive, Italian leather shoes sounded just behind him. Mishca didn’t have to turn to know that Mikhail and Viktor had just arrived.

“They’re not ours,” Mishca said when they were flanking him, gesturing to the tattoos on their forearms. “It seems Declan is coming out to play.”

Declan O’Connell was the only heir to his father’s empire—very much like Mishca though he was technically second in line—but there was only one slight difference between them. The crowds in which they ran.

There were different organizations fighting for purchase in New York City, big ones like the Cosa Nostra and the Vory v Zakone, but for each, there were smaller divisions spread out around the cities, and even throughout the states. However, Declan belonged to the O’Connell family, part of the Irish Mob over in Staten Island.

And their families hated one another.

They had a fierce rivalry, the constant fight for power keeping them at war. While their fathers had a rather...mutual understanding to keep the peace, keeping their businesses under wraps to not attract the feds’ attention, but while Mishca understood the rules and followed his father’s example, Declan didn’t care about rules.

He and Mishca were about the same age, but Declan thrived in the chaos of it all, treating his position like a bad mafia movie. He didn’t care about costs or consequences, he left destruction wherever he went. He didn’t carefully screen who he brought in, instead hiring anyone that came to him for a job, leaving his dealings open for anyone to infiltrate.

Mishca thought of the two that confronted him outside his club. He had originally thought it was just a ploy to get under his skin, but now it seemed that Declan was trying to send a message. But what point could he possibly be trying to make by killing his own men and leaving them on their doorstep?

“Doubtful,” Viktor interjected, rubbing his goatee. “He is but a child, no?”

Mishca scowled. Viktor was old-school, refusing to believe that anyone below the age of fifty was of any value when it came to their business. Mishca accepted it, not only because Viktor was his uncle, but because his money and power spoke for itself.

“He has an endless supply of weaponry and idiots that are willing to work for him.” Mishca toed one of the dead men’s legs. “What would you make of it?”

“That is not why I called you here,” said Mikhail addressing both of them. “Follow me.”

The inside of the warehouse was ripe with the scent of dead bodies and unlike the outside, the floor of the place was littered with casings, unspent bullets, and rust colored stains on the floor.

Already knowing what to expect, Mishca pulled on a pair of rubber gloves Viktor handed him, checking the clip of his gun at his back, always prepared for anything or anyone.

They stepped over bodies, Mikhail sighing at the sight. It wasn’t remorse, more like he was agitated with the amount of work that would need to be done.

Taking the stairs to the roof, they stepped out and spotted the man that made Mishca curse.

It was Abram Aganoff, sprawled out on the ground like the others, his gun still in his hand. The only difference was he had a single gunshot wound to the head.

His eyes were still open, vacant, staring up at the sky like he could see the Heavens. Though, it was more than likely he would never see that paradise with his sins.His skin was an unnatural shade, the freezing temperature making parts of his body blue.

“How long has he been here?” Mishca asked surveying the rest of the rooftop.

Viktor glanced at his watch. “I have not heard much from him since a few weeks ago.”

“Call Droija, tell him his services are needed.” When Viktor walked off to follow the order, Mikhail turned to face Mishca. “I hear that you are bringing the girl to dinner.”

Damn Alex and her big mouth. Mishca tried not to look worried. “Is that a problem?”

His father didn’t respond immediately, just studying him in that uncanny way of his. “I hope you know what you are doing, Mishca. If she ever learned of her father—”

“She won’t.” Even though it seemed that everything was slowly drifting to the surface. Seeing Susan again… “We’ll be at the manor at the end of the week.”

“Watch for the families,” Mikhail warned, waving for his men to bring the car around. “Everyone is coming.”





Chapter seventeen:


Volkov Manor


“It’s not that big, love.”

Lauren had no doubt that Mishca was rich. It was an easy enough assumption from the clothes he wore, his personal security, hell even his apartment, but she wasn’t fully prepared for the family estate.

As they began the winding drive up the stone pathway towards his childhood home, she tried not to gawk at the sheer size of the Tudor style mansion, or the acres of land.

They reached the top, circling around the enormous stone fountain. A statue of the Virgin Mary sat in a pool of frozen water, icicles glistening from her hands where the flowing water was supposed to fall. The surrounding snow caused a kaleidoscope effect, throwing colors out onto the white surroundings.

The property was secluded, their neighbors more than a mile away on all sides. Even the surrounding forest was dense enough that even through the barren trees, a person couldn’t see any more than the snow and bark.