Page 36 of Tangled Vows

Why? Because our boss will be faced with one of the hardest decisions of his life. He ordered us not to come to him until we had the name of the bomber. We have more than that, since our men paid him a visit right after we left. Now, it’s up to Viktor Yelchin what we do next.

Hell, I wouldn’t want to be him. No way. The information we got from that Latino could mean war. It won’t be just us against a bunch of rough Armenians. They may be tough, but they act on impulse. Tough guys? Yep. Some of them are strong enough to bring down brick walls with their bare fists. Methodical? Planning ahead? Taking their time to strategize? No. They’d rather have a cigar and think of ways to make easy money. That’s the Armenians’ way.

There’s a hint of drizzle in the air when I approach the marina. Raindrops are falling on the windscreen, and my mind is on my boss. No matter the ass-kicking we got from him the other day, I can’t help but wonder what his decision will be. And if I know Ivan—which I do—he’s thinking the exact same thing. He’s standing under his umbrella in a black overcoat, just a few paces from the staircase of our Pakhan’s boat.

“Morning,” I say, tipping my head down. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to do a weapons’ check anytime soon.”

“I do, Leonid,” he claims, following right behind me. “If the Italians want war, let’s give them one.”

Typical Ivan; he doesn’t give a shit about the chaos on the street. That’s what will happen if we engage the Italian mafia. Lives will be lost in bloody gunfights across Miami. The death toll could rise into hundreds, and some of those unfortunate souls won’t have anything to do with the Bratva or an Italian family. They might be innocent passersby.

“You’re one crazy bastard,” I say, reaching the deck. Dmitri is standing in front of the entrance of the bridge, hands crossed over his stomach. Beyond him, Viktor Yelchin stares at us, his cold expression not surprising me.

“Where’s the package?” I ask Dmitri, giving him a quick glance.

“Behind me,” he answers, moving aside to reveal a black trash bag.

“Nice,” I praise, shuffling off. Ivan and I join Viktor on the bridge; I acknowledge him with a nod.

“Good morning, sir,” I say in a clear voice.

“You’d better have good news for me,” he warns, his tone stiff. “Or I’ll throw you overboard myself.”

“We do,” I announce. “We were able to locate the guy who planted the bomb in my car, thanks to Rurik’s computer skills. Dmitri!” I shout as Viktor glances between me and Ivan.

My man’s footsteps are loud on the hardwood floor of the bridge. He steps around me, trash bag in hand.

“Careful,” I advise. “We don’t want to get blood all over the boss’s floor.”

“Fuck the floor,” Viktor commands. “What’s in that bag?”

At that, Dmitri grabs the bottom of the bag and raises it up to his chest. Flipping it upside down, a head drops to the floor. It rolls away and stops just by Viktor’s feet, leaving a trail of blood on the wood.

“This is Sergio Juarez,” I announce, my expression flat. “Rurik’s facial recognition software identified him as the bomber—and he admitted it. The Armenians had nothing to do with that bomb. Believe it or not, some wise guy paid Juarez ten grand.”

“An Italian?” Viktor wonders with a squint. “Are you sure?”

“Boss, the guy’s nickname is Tommy-No-Nose, and the transaction went down in an Italian restaurant in Little Italy,” I go on. “So, yes, I’m sure. It sucks that we don’t have his real name, but the nickname is enough for us to track him down. That’s if you want us to do that.”

“Hmmm...” he hums, shoving his hands into his pockets as he hangs his head. “Tough call.”

“Boss,” Ivan interjects. “To me, it’s a no brainer. The Italians declared war on us for some reason. Let’s take the fight to them. Let’s show them what the Bratva is made of.”

“I’ll tell you what the Bratva’s made of,” Viktor states, his words quickening. “Hundreds of brave men and one idiot named Ivan Petrov.”

“Idiot?” Ivan frowns before tossing me a sideways glance.

“Yes!” Viktor cries out, banging his fist on the table. “You’re talking about war, Petrov! Fucking war! This means lives lost. Men who never come back. Money down the drain. Businesses ruined.”

“Yes, but—”

“No but!” Victor shouts, veins across his forehead bulging. “You want to do something? Find that Tommy-No-Nose and take care of him. Be careful; no one else dies. Collateral damage means war. Now, go.”

I turn around, glad that my boss has listened to reason. Yet, Ivan jogs past, mumbling and looking back over his shoulder. We are halfway down the stairs when I catch up to him.

“It’s the right decision,” I say. “We get our revenge and move on.”

“Bullshit,” Ivan grumbles. “It’s a mistake. And we still don’t know why that Tommy guy wants you dead.”

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