Until the End (Volkov Bratva #2)(37)

When he wasn’t conducting business, Mikhail was in the kitchen, overseeing the chefs as they prepared the day’s selections. It was here that Mishca found his father wearing a stained, white apron tied around his waist, a large silver spoon in hand as he tasted what looked like beets.

Mishca had barely entered the kitchens when Mikhail called out, “I hear the Albanians are in town.”

He really shouldn’t have been surprised that his father had heard, hardly anything went down in this city that he didn’t know about. “It’s why I’m here.”

Territories were in place for a reason, primarily to ensure that whenever a neighboring organization intruded, they announced their presence. Before Mishca had even joined the ranks, it had been common practice to shoot first and question later. After a few awful, bloody accidents, the Bratva made it clear to anyone who thought to near them that an invitation was required. For the Albanians, however, the arrangement was entirely different. They were never allowed on the Russians’ territory. Ever.

“What have you done now?” Mikhail asked wiping his hands clean.

“Nothing that I’m aware of. I try to steer clear of them after the incident.”

He didn’t have to elaborate, Mikhail knew exactly what he was talking about.

“And I assume I’m not needed?”

“I can handle it.”

Mikhail studied him, finally nodding. “So be it. I trust you will have this wrapped up quickly. I’m entertaining guests this evening.”

“Senator Torres?” Mishca smirked as his father looked back at him. He wasn’t the only one that heard things.

Mishca left the kitchens, returning to the dining room, finding a booth away from the front windows. Now, he needed only wait for them to show up.

He hadn’t come unprepared however, Mishca had called a few of his men to meet him here, just to ensure everyone’s compliance. Vlad was already stationed nearby, as well as Donald and Raj who often worked security at his club.

Then there was the other.

He walked through the front doors, yelling out at a man that mistakenly bumped into him on his way in. He had a head full of curling blonde hair and blue eyes, but his rather pleasant look contrasted with the psychopath he truly was.

Luka Sergeyev was another of Mishca’s enforcers, a fact that many others didn’t understand. They thought, because of his age, he didn’t deserve the position, but that mattered little to Mishca--he too was disregarded because of his age--and mattered even less to Luka.

He had zero regard for authority besides Mikhail, and when he was in the mood, for Mishca as well. While others wore suits, Luka only owned jeans and T-shirts. He routinely turned up late for meetings--if for no other reason than to piss Mishca off--hardly spoke, and had a warped sense of humor. It didn’t mean that he didn’t respect Mishca and the work he did, he just wasn’t as traditional about it.

It also didn’t help that he could be a bit…unpredictable. Men in the Bratva came from various walks of life, but Luka came from several different backgrounds, ones that Mishca didn’t truly know since Luka refused to talk about it. The only thing Mishca knew for sure was that Luka’s parents had been Albanian.

Mishca didn’t even know Luka’s real name.

He plopped down in the chair beside Mishca, taking a big bite of the green apple in his hand. “What’s doing, Boss?”

Vlad rolled his eyes, the only thing anyone did when Luka was around.

Glancing down at his watch, Mishca noted the hour. “I’m surprised you’re on time,” Mishca said undoing his cufflinks to roll his sleeves up.

Luka shrugged, talking with his mouth full. “Natasha was busy.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Mishca didn’t bother to respond, not wanting to attempt to broach the subject of Luka with one of the girls from The Gilded Room.

Instead, he waited in silence, trying to prepare himself for the men he knew were coming.

There was one thing Mishca knew about the Albanians. They were volatile.

The organization as a whole lived by their own set of rules that dictated how they handled their business, and if they even thought they were being disrespected, the Albanians—namely the ones Mishca knew—made sure to send a message in retaliation.

Which would ultimately end in something bloody.

Only one other time had Mishca had the misfortune to come across the Albanians, an incident that was forever seared into his memory because of the consequences of that single day.

Just a single error, one that no one could have predicted, except for a select few individuals, had saved the Albanians from a war that would have ended in hundreds of deaths, with more than a few innocent bystanders.

To this day, the truce between the two families was shaky at best and events like this—even ones that Mishca couldn’t control—could tip the balance in the wrong direction.

The Besnik Family was one of the few Albanian crime families that were located in London as opposed to Albania itself. Mishca hadn’t had the misfortune of meeting everyone connected with them, but he had met the brothers once before.

Jetmir and Brahim Besnik.

Brahim was the youngest of the two and looked it with his boyish face that lacked any real facial hair, even though he was two years Mishca’s senior. Jetmir was the oldest, and by far, one of the most powerful men that Mishca knew.