Until the End (Volkov Bratva #2)(69)

One of the soldiers outside opened the door, stepping back so Jetmir could exit with the silver urn in his hands.

No one spoke, just inclined their heads in respect as he passed.

“My son is home,” Mirela Besnik called as she came down the limestone steps, her face bright with mirth.

She stopped short when she saw what Jetmir held. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head and knew the exact moment she determined who was inside after shifting her gaze behind him and not seeing her youngest son get out.

When a choked sob escaped her, he sighed helplessly.

“Mama, I—”

She slapped him, snatching the urn from his hands as she went storming back into the mansion.

There was nothing he could do at the moment, not when she was too upset with him to listen to what he had to say. Instead, he followed behind her silently, and as she went up the stairs to her room, he stayed down in the den, snapping his fingers for one of the men inside to bring him a glass of Brandy.

A half dozen crates sat near the fireplace, ones that were filled with military-grade assault rifles and ammo, a spontaneous purchase he had made months before he decided to track Naomi down.

Bastian, a loyal soldier of his, presented Jetmir with a file, one that had everything he’d requested before he arrived.

“Let’s go.”

Bastian followed him back outside where all of his men were gathered, waiting for his orders.

When Jetmir had their attention, he pulled out the first picture in the folder.

“If you do not know, this is Mishca Volkov,” he said, his voice echoing in the silence of the courtyard. “He murdered my brother and I want his head.”

He tossed the photo to the ground, pulling out the next one.

“But he does not deserve death quickly. Before he dies, I will force him to watch as you,”—he pointed at each of them in turn—“have your way with his precious whore.”

This got a smile out of half of them.

Lauren’s picture fluttered down, joining Mishca’s on the ground.

Jetmir flung the folder open, more gray photos spilling out, so many different faces amongst them.

He might have appeared calm to them, but Jetmir’s thoughts were chaotic as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

“I want them all dead, understand?”

Once he had their acceptance, Jetmir retreated back inside, this time not stopping in the den, but heading up to where his guest was waiting.

There hadn’t been a mob war in decades, at least not one that attracted attention by the media, but Jetmir knew that innocent blood would stain the streets of New York, along with the blood of his enemies.

He did not value human life, especially those that opposed him. If the Volkovs thought they had suffered before, they had no idea what he had planned for them.

Not bothering to knock, Jetmir opened the door to one of his guest bedrooms.

She turned to him, her arms folded across her chest petulantly, annoyed at his lack of haste to see her. Extending his hand, Jetmir curled his fingers around the hand of the woman that would help him exact his revenger on the man that had taken his brother from him.

Anya Volkov smiled, her eyes alight with a terrible hunger, sparked by hatred and greed. She didn’t know she was but a pawn in the grand scheme of things, but until she was no longer useful, she would make a valuable ally. No one was safe.

War was coming.