Page 89 of I Would Beg For You

She nods. I kiss her again, then release her and head downstairs. Antonio, Luciano, and Marco are in my study. I close the door behind me, and Antonio doesn’t waste a second.

“You’re sure about this?”

My jaw tenses, and I force in a long inhale. “It’s time they all know who they are dealing with.”

Silence blankets my statement, then all three men nod. They’ll be accompanying me today, a show of power and strength, even though I’ll be going in alone with Marco as my bodyguard.

We get into the Range Rover this time, and it takes us over an hour and a half with the traffic to get to Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. Marco stops the SUV a little past the pier, taking a turn down a side street. It’s early spring and the beaches are dotted here and there with a handful of hardy locals out for the day. Come summer, you’d be hard pressed to find a square foot of sand free of people.

We’re still visible from the main road, but again, Marco and I getting out and strolling as if without a care toward a Russian restaurant on the corner is a lot about appearances and projection. We’re here of our own volition, not afraid, not cowering, fully invested in our power and authority. I can feel more than a few pairs of eyes perusing us as we get to the eatery that’s the informal headquarters of the d’yavol of Little Odessa.

Marco pushes the door open and steps in first. He holds the panel for me, and I walk into the relative gloom inside without letting the sudden dip in brightness affect my stance. We both stop and let the two men who appear check us for weapons. Marco’s allowed to keep his gun provided he doesn’t step one more inch into the place. We’d known this would happen, and he quietly stays put.

Since I’ve got no weapon on me, the men let me proceed inside.

Far into the gloom, at the back of the room, is the only occupied table. A big man, almost as wide as the round surface that could seat six itself, is sitting there, eyes on the front of the restaurant so he can’t miss anything going on up front. He’scracking walnuts and eating them leisurely, one by one, as if he has all the time in the world.

When I reach him, one of his men pulls a chair out for me.

I tip my head to the big guy. “Yevgeni.”

He doesn’t like being addressed as Mr.

“Tovarishch Andretti,” he returns.

Comrade. I’ll take that.

“Valentino,” I tell him.

He cracks another walnut, eats it, then waves a meaty hand at the pulled-out chair. I take my cue to sit down and keep my eyes on him.

“I have something for you,” I say.

He smiles, the jowls on his face hardly moving even though he’s grinning wide. His small, beady eyes narrow some more. I’m treading in dangerous waters here. The Bratva have no code of conduct like our Borgatas do. Thieves among thieves, they’re often described as, so of course, no honor among them. Still, their ruthlessness has been causing troubles for our syndicate lately. They tend to barge in and encroach, and fuck the consequences.

“I’m listening,” he says, finally.

“I hear you’re expanding in the New York Metropolitan area up north.”

“Da?”

I lift my hands up. “Not my area, so this doesn’t concern me.”

“So, what do you want?”

I lower my hands, slowly point to my jacket, and retrieve my phone from the interior pocket. “I have something for you. Should you want it.”

I start a video, then turn the screen toward Yevgeni. He watches it, tries to appear unconcerned, though I can see the interest building in his eyes, the salivating that makes him gulp almost imperceptibly thanks to all the rolls of flesh on his neck.

“What is this?” he asks, looking up.

I smile. “He’s yours. If you want him.”

He glances at the screen again, then at me. “What do you get in this?”

“Nothing. But maybe one day, when you’re expanding farther north and let’s say west, you’ll have some mercy for my territory.”

He laughs, then, says something in Russian which I construe must be an insult but like you’d throw out at a brother or good friend.

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