Page 90 of I Would Beg For You

“He’s mine?” he asks.

“All yours.”

He stays silent for long moments. “What did he do to you?”

My jaw clenches. “He tried to rape my wife.”

“Mudak,” he mutters. “That not cool.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Let me take him off your hands, tovarishch.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” I nod at the phone. “May I?”

He nods, and I place a call to Pesci, who’s waiting a few minutes away in one of our cars that drove to meet us here from Newark.

“Back door safe?” I ask Yevgeni, who nods.

It’s only a few minutes before one of his men steps in from the back and whispers in his ear. Yevgeni pushes back his chair and steps away, motioning for me to join him. For such a gigantic fellow—he must be six-foot-seven and weigh at least three hundred pounds—he is remarkably fast on his feet, and I follow him into the kitchens, then a back room that opens onto the alleyway outside.

Pesci sees me, and at my nod, opens the trunk and retrieves the man stashed inside. He wastes no time handing him over to Yevgeni’s men. As they pass by him, Yevgeni makes them stop. He cocks his head and smiles as he runs a tender hand on ThadBillings’ head. Then he gives the go-ahead to take him in, and he’s turning to me.

“My friend, we celebrate!”

I dismiss Pesci with another nod—he knows to join the others around the corner—and follow Yevgeni back inside. He’s breaking out the vodka, and I down the shot he pours for me.

“Za znakomstvo!!” he cheers, and I follow suit, before he refills our glasses again. This time, he clinks glasses with me, then starts talking. “Tovarishch Andretti, Valentino. Today, you become brother of Yevgeni.” He then downs the shot, and I do the same.

I remember hearing somewhere that you always return a Russian’s toast, so I refill our glasses, clink with his, then raise the glass. “Welcome to our Borgata, Yevgeni Mikhailovich.”

We down the shots, then he is hugging me before kissing me on both cheeks.

“You, my friend, make me very happy man.”

I laugh. “My pleasure. But you must forgive me. I have to get back to my wife.”

Russians worship their wives. No matter how many mistresses they keep, the wife is sacred.

He says something in Russian while waving his hands at the door. One beefy palm lands on my back as he escorts me across the restaurant, and at the door, he kisses me on my cheeks again.

“Do svidaniya, tovarishch.”

I bid him farewell, then Marco is walking beside me as we make our way back to the car. Once we’re inside, Antonio turns to me.

“It is done?”

I nod. “It is done.”

The first move I made as the head of my Borgata, and it won’t be one anyone is soon to forget once they hear about it. The Bratva in general have cornered the market in prostitution ringsand strip clubs. However, one rule they do have is they are never to sample the merchandise themselves.

Yevgeni Sokolov, the d’yavol of Little Odessa, has very specific tastes. Male, young, but not children or teenagers—no, he’s not that dirty. But twenty-something men he can throw around, kick around, bruise and fuck without a care? That’s his jam. Gay men are frowned upon in Russian society, but he doesn’t care. Anyone who has a problem with that and him end up quartered and pickled in barrels of vodka. That’s how he earned his nickname of ‘devil’ of Little Odessa.

My jaw clenches as I stare out the window.

Thad Billings thought he could take from a woman without her consent. Wait until he finds the tables turned on him. He’ll know never to cross me then. And soon, the rest of the East Coast will hear about it, too.

Chapter 29 Valentino

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