Until the End (Volkov Bratva #2)(38)

It could be said that the older fellow had a natural born hatred for Mishca because he, like so many others, incorrectly assumed that Mishca was just given his position as Bratva Captain, a similar position as to what Jetmir held himself.

Another thing he hated was having to address Mishca as his equal when he was several years younger. In his territory, he would never have allowed such acts to transpire. In his eyes, Mishca was still just a boy.

The bell at the entrance sounded, in walking men Mishca hoped he would never see again. He recognized Jetmir and Brahim immediately, forever connected to them. For that reason, there could never truly be a truce, not when they were both constantly thinking of killing the other, and the last Mishca had heard, someone was picking the Albanians off one by one. No doubt that would be blamed on them as well…Mishca was more responsible for that than he cared to admit.

Mishca climbed to his feet as the men entered, forcing himself to remain unfazed by their appearance in his city. He wasn’t the same person he’d been four years ago, not even a little.

“Gentlemen, what brings you to New York?”

Despite their local branch, the Albanians rarely frequented Manhattan and because of a ‘misunderstanding’ they made it a point to announce their presence when they came to Mishca’s territory.

Mishca gave them a chance to sit, get comfortable, and even went so far as to pour drinks as they were cohorts instead of enemies.

“A spontaneous trip,” Jetmir responded with his thick accent. “It seems a mutual acquaintance of ours has come to the city.”

He looked at Mishca expectantly, but Mishca knew better than to respond to that. His best option was to play the part.

“I don’t speak in riddles,” Jetmir went on. “Naomi Le Feuvre is here and I want her.”

“For?”

“We have no business with you, Russian,” Jetmir said, a flash of annoyance sparking in his eyes at being questioned. “It is none of your concern.”

“You would not be here if it weren’t.”

Because of a rash decision years ago—one that he didn't truly understand the significance of until much later—Mishca was now in the middle of a fight he had nothing to do with. It was his responsibility to right the situation and only if they acted against the Bratva as a whole would Mikhail step in.

“Tell me, what has Naomi done?”

Jetmir snapped his fingers, one of his men producing a photograph, handing it to Mishca. It was of an orange diamond, fire diamonds he thought they were called.

“She stole it from me. I want it back or you can give her to me as collateral.”

“What makes you so sure she has it?”

Jetmir smiled, telling Mishca all he needed to know. Someone had died, painfully, giving up Naomi.

“If she has it, I will force her to hand it over to me and I will give it to you. Once I deliver it, you will not touch her, understood?”

He scoffed. “You think to order me, boy?”

Jetmir was too focused on Mishca to notice when Luka was lumbering to his feet, ready to dive across the table for the man’s throat. Jetmir was being purposefully disrespectful and Luka had grown tired of it.

Yet, when Mishca held his hand up, Luka stopped. Despite his predilection for rash anger, he wouldn’t strike out unless Mishca ordered it.

At least most of the time. Thankfully, this was one of them.

“Careful. We don’t want a repeat of the last time we crossed paths,” Mishca said darkly, smirking when he saw Jetmir’s hand fist, resisting the urge to touch the scar on his face. “I will call you in one week to set up the meeting. You’re dismissed.”

Surprising even to Mishca, Jetmir and his crew left without another word, though Mishca knew this wasn’t the end of it.

Luka sat back with a contented smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you ready?”

Sighing in agitation, Mishca gulped down the shot of Vodka in front of him, grabbing for Luka’s as well. “Ready for what?”

“You drew the line, Cap. Jetmir has no choice but to retaliate or he’ll lose face,” Luka said rubbing his hands together, a manic gleam entering his eyes despite his ominous words. “It’s about to get interesting.”





There were some neighborhoods most people feared to tread in, where there was a look-the-other-way policy in place. Because of this, no one paid much attention to the massive men sitting on the stoop in front of a rather rundown brownstone, and when the six-figure car pulled up along the curb, with a cursory glance, it was dismissed as well.

The men snapped to attention when Jetmir climbed out of the car, his reputation preceding him. No one paid much attention when the younger and smaller version of him followed. To the Albanians, power wasn’t granted to those who bore a famous last name, but to those that knew how to wield it.

Blood, both innocent and guilty, stained Jetmir’s hands, not that he gave a second thought to his victims. The guilty ones deserved their fate, and the innocents…wrong place, wrong time.

Brahim, on the other hand, had never killed a man in his twenty-eight years, though the opportunity had presented itself many times.

No one would ever say it to them—not if they wanted to live—but behind their backs, whispers of the brothers was common nature.

Jetmir was the tyrant and lived to make an example of anyone who thought to challenge him. A dozen or more men had lost their lives for the simplest of things.