Page 101 of Mountain Mens' Curvy Obsession

We’re both packing underneath our jackets, ready to draw, if push comes to shove. I follow his gaze, one hand close to my back for easy access to my holstered weapon. I see them, too. Two large figures move downward, passing behind the staircase windows—the only windows that aren’t mirrored.

Slowly, we move closer to the front of the house, then cautiously cross the narrow road to join our brother. He might need backup.

“Zoya, we’re not here to cause any trouble,” Nico says into the intercom microphone. “We are carrying weapons for our own safety, and we’re in contact with the federal authorities regarding Leo Sokolov and the Dalton massacre. But we need your help. It’s time to enact your plan.”

Finally, the front door opens and the two big men we noticed mere seconds ago come out. One of them looks slightly familiar. He’s probably been with the Asimovs for a long time, judging by his silver hair and numerous facial scars.

“And what do you think my plan is?” A woman’s raspy voice comes through the speakerphone.

“Get revenge for your family and reclaim the Asimovs’ seat at the big table,” Nico bluntly replies. “We can help you with that.”

The two men come down the front steps, then reach the gates. The elder guard presses a button, allowing the gates to open for us.

“No guns inside,” he says.

“That’s fine. Like I was telling Zoya, they’re just for our protection,” Nico replies.

“In the atrium,” the guard nods, and the three of us follow them inside.

A stern pat down later, and with our guns left on the round table in the villa’s airy lobby, I sit next to my brothers in Zoya’s sprawling living room—a sea of soft whites and creamy beiges unraveling around us. She rests on the main sofa, a vintage tea service within her reach on the sculptural coffee table. The woman is aging with remarkable grace.

“Thank you for letting us in,” Nico says. “I know it couldn’t have been easy to bring yourself to trust us or anyone outside the family, for that matter.”

Zoya smiles gently. Her white hair is pulled into an elegant bun, her blue eyes bright with fear and familiarity. “In a way, you are family,” she says, briefly lowering her gaze. “So, the inevitable happened. Leo caught up with Anya.”

“He did. But the circumstances were complicated, to say the least,” Nico replies, then goes on to briefly tell her about how we found and then lost Anya. I relive every moment through his words, finding myself growing increasingly anxious. “We were betrayed. We failed to protect her.”

“You failed no one,” Zoya bluntly says. “You gave my granddaughter a fighting chance. We’re just lucky Leo is such an obsessive-compulsive piece of shit who thrives on control and power. He needs her alive to gain both.”

“We think Leo plans to parade her in front of the other families,” I reply. “I assume it’s going to happen during a big council meeting.”

Zoya’s face drops. “I’ve heard chatter about a meeting happening tonight at midnight.”

“Do you know where?” I ask.

“And what will you do about it? The three of you against the whole of the New York Bratva?”

“You seem to forget where we come from,” Nico politely reminds her.

“And you seem to forget there are more of them than there are of you,” she shoots back. “You cannot go in and expect Leo to just drop everything.”

“We won’t,” Nico says. “We need you.”

She scoffs and shakes her head. “I’m an old woman. Powerless. Retired. None of the other families have even reached out. No one offered their protection when Dalton happened. I’ve been on my own for a long time, my dears. I doubt my word has any standing among the Bratva anymore.”

“See, this is where you’re wrong,” I say, catching a glimpse of the silver haired guy’s frown as he looks down at his shoes. “What’s your name, sir? Sergei? I remember you.”

He gives me a surprised look. “You do?”

“Sergei has been with our family for twenty-five years, ever since he left Moscow and came to America in search of a better life,” Zoya says. “And Andrei… I took him under my wing when he was expelled from the Abramovic inner circle. They were going to kill him.”

Andrei is in his early thirties, from what I can tell.

“I think I remember. It was the Abramovic Cleanup Operation. That’s what the newspapers called it,” I say, nodding slowly. “It’s when the old man… Ivan Abramovic, right? When the old man learned two ATF informants had infiltrated his crew, he picked out all the younglings, all the new kids on the block, and some he killed point-blank in the street to send a message; others, he made disappear. How’d you get so lucky, Andrei?”

“Mrs. Asimova saw my potential,” Andrei replies.

“He’s an exquisite marksman,” Zoya interjects. “He could give the three of you a run for your money. What is your point, though, Chance? It’s not my mercy or my magnanimity you’re trying to highlight here.”

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