Page 170 of Black Castle

A murmur ripples through the room, some cursing under their breaths, heads shaking in disapproval and disappointment.

“With all due respect, Pakhan, do you know if this ends up falling into the wrong hands, if law enforcement catches wind of it, all our operations will be compromised? I mean, do you understand the gravity of this situation? Because the way you’re handling this, it seems you don’t.”

Zev’s eyes flicker to the person who just spoke. His name is John Popov, face lined with years of battle and bloodshed.

“Eugene would surely never have allowed this to happen, you know this very well,” the man adds.

Zev’s jaw clenches at John Popov’s last comment. That comparison with his adopted father is a calculated insult, one meant to prod him into action or surrender. But he meets his gaze, unwavering, unflinching.

“And yet here we are,” Zev says evenly, his voice like ice cracking over a frozen lake. “It doesn’t matter what my father would or wouldn’t have done. I will find the damn ledger. So, just continue to sit your old asses down and look pretty. Because that’s what you all are fucking good at.”

The murmur of disapproval ensues. Zev’s last words seem to have stirred some umbrage. But did they really think they were doing so much for this Bratva before? Most of them are fucking useless, just here to keep the seat warm.

“Our allies are restless, Lucan.” Adam Mogilevich—the oldest man in the clan—says, so unaware that the person before him isn’t the Lucan they think they know. “The Albanians, the Triads, hell even the Italians. Those pesky flies that are nothing without us are also making threats.”

“Is it their fault?” Someone remarks bitterly. “It’s not their fault that we have allowed them a glimpse at our end. For heaven’s sake, who loses a ledger?”

Zev takes in a sharp breath, his nails digging into the polished oak. Left to him, he will pull out a gun right now and silence them with nothing more than three silver bullets. But he won’t. Because this time, they are right, and their anger and unrest are justified. Lucan was careless, so trusting he allowed any of the soldiers to breathe around his neck, strut in and strut out of his room. So fucking careless. Now Zev is left dancing alone to the harsh tune of their new reality. But even if Lucan was here, he would still be too weak to do anything. So fucking pathetic. He is really better off disarmed, silent…gone like he never existed.

“We are supposed to be working on getting the Greek Mafia on our side,” Adam Mogilevich continues, drumming his fingers gently against the table. “This isn’t the time to be losing allies. If we lose our backing, we all lose everything. And if that ledger resurfaces with our names on it, we’re all doomed. You know the feds. They’ll tear through us like wolves through fresh meat.”

“How close are you to retrieving it?” Someone asks, more worried than angry.

Zev inhales sharply, tilting his head in the person’s direction. It’s the youngest amongst the elders. He works for the Foreign Intelligence Service. “Closer than before,” he replies, his voice calm, cool.

The scoffs that follow Zev’s assurance are filled with doubt but he doesn’t flinch. These people have got nothing on him.

“Well, hasten your effort.” The command cuts across the tense air. “Or we’ll be forced to handle this another way.

Zev is well aware of what another way means for him. It means every single one of them on this table will vote against his reign. This time, he won’t be able to pull out a gun and shoot anyone. This time, he would have to surrender. Because then, it’ll be 120 against one—with Lucan being gone.

Yet, as true as the threat seems, Zev leans against the table, a slow, knowing smirk creeping up his lips. “Do you really think anyone else can handle this better?” His gaze sweeps the room, challenging them, daring them. “If so, be my guest. But if not, sit pretty and let me do this my own way.”

And with that, he leans off the table, heading out of the chamber, the heavy sound of boots falling behind him as some of his soldiers follow him out.

As he steps into the foyer of the Raskovics old family house, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Slipping a hand inside, he fetches the device.

It’s one of his men.

“Boss.” The voice echoes through the speaker, calm, calculated.

“Found anything?” Zev’s tone is sharper in Russian, his shoulders tensing.

“Not yet, sir,” the soldier says, and Zev pauses right beside the opened door of the backseat. “There are no security cameras anywhere close to the neighborhood. It’s really hard trying to find a killer who didn’t make the mistake of leaving anything behind.”

“Well, keep searching,” Zev spits. “I didn’t give you the job to handle if I knew you couldn’t do it. How fucking hard is it to find a petty killer?”

“I’ll go back to work, Boss.”

Zev peels the phone off his ear, ending the call before slipping into the car, the door slamming with a dull bang.

The feel of warm leather against him doesn’t numb the migraine pressing against his skull, it doesn’t calm the roaring blood in his veins. The comfort it offers is fleeting as the storm in his head refuses to cease.

First, his headache has been the missing ledger. And now, he’s trying to find a killer because somehow, he has been accused of a murder he doesn’t remember committing.

The night Kenji Sato and his mother got attacked, Zev killed three people that same night, but he swore none of them lived a mile close to Kenji and his Mom.

Yet someone has killed them in a way that fingers only point at him.

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