Page 62 of Marrying the Mobster
“Don’t play this fucking game with me, Oleg!” I roar, so close to pulling the trigger it’s uncanny. I’m angrier over the deaths of my men and the prospect of Elena being made a widow than anything else. Just the thought of her unprotected and alone in the world boils my blood, and this motherfucker would have been the cause. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me how pissed off you were that I didn’t choose Nataly. Tell me that an alliance with Arman Sargzyan was attractive enough for you to mow me down to get it!”
Oleg comes boldly closer … so close that his chest presses against the muzzle of my .45. For the first time in years, I get a glimpse of the ruthless monster hiding behind his refined demeanor. His blue eyes turn into ice chips, and a vein in his forehead pulses so hard it might blow any second.
“Out of respect for you, and the love I had for your parents, I have tolerated your accusations. But I’ve had enough. Arman Sargzyan is a shitstain on the world and a double-crossingsvoloch’. The suggestion that I wouldever…” he’s so worked up he can’t even think up the right words in English. He turns his head and spits, muttering, “Blyat.”
My confidence falters as he goes on cursing in Russian, his face reddening and his hands clenching into fists. I’ve known Oleg my entire life and have never caught him in an outright lie. He’s a ruthless bastard, but a straightforward one. It’s why I found it so hard to believe he could behind this. But … mygatitaisn’t a liar either.
“Elena told me she overheard Viktor talking to someone over the phone,” I say, keeping my pistol pressed against his heart. “InArmenian! Arman was mentioned by name.”
Oleg’s anger melts away into shock. “Impossible.”
My nostrils flare with indignation. “You calling my wife a liar?”
“No, but I know my son.”
“Do you? Where was he the night of the shipment?”
He blinks, looking at me like I’m speaking ancient Greek. “What the fuck do you mean? He was with you! I sent him with the other soldiers to guard the guard the docks.”
I lower my pistol, realizing we’ve both been played. “I don’t know if any of your men told you, but Viktor wasn’t there. If I had to guess, I’d say he made himself scarce to avoid the crossfire. Your son is a traitor.”
Oleg sinks into his armchair. Lowering his head into his hands, he lets out a pained sigh and shakes his head. I narrow my eyes and watch him, trying to decide whether I’m witnessing a master actor at work, or a grieving father. If Viktor really was behind the attack, then Oleg knows as well as I do what happens next.
“Bozhe, nyet,” he murmurs in a low, broken voice. “Not my son.”
I hear the quaver in his voice, as if he’s about to break down and cry. He’s not faking it.
Raising my hand, I signal my men to lower their weapons. “Where is he?”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine and they’re flooded with tears. “I don’t know. Not here.”
“Any idea where he might have gone? Don’t bullshit me, Oleg. He has to pay for this.”
He sits up straight and blinks away his tears, becoming his stoic self again. “I know he does, God help him. I will not interfere. But, no … I can’t imagine where he’s gone. He has a condo across town; he might be there. Otherwise, I couldn’t tell you.”
I press a finger to my earpiece—a direct line to Jaime. “Address.”
“Coming right up, jefe,” he replies.
I turn back to Oleg, switching the safety of my weapon on. “Your son’s life is forfeit. It now belongs to me. Don’t stand in my way.”
Oleg waves a dismissive hand, all business now. “As is right. You will see no resistance from me.”
“Good,” I reply. “Keep your guard up. Arman is in town and he has the Brotherhood with him. Later, we’ll have to talk about the potential for a turf war. He’s a greedy son of a bitch, as you know.”
He bobs his head in a nod, but his eyes are unfocused, his mind elsewhere. I lead my men from the room, leaving Oleg to his mourning. The next time he sees his firstborn son, it’ll be as he stands over Viktor’s coffin.
29
Elena
Diego has been gone for too long. It’s been hours and he hasn’t called or come home. The house is as silent as a mausoleum, leaving me with nothing to do but sit and worry. For a while I try to distract myself sketching new designs. The lines start to blur together, so I put my design book aside and try to get lost in a novel. When that doesn’t work, I flip through the channels on TV. I spend an hour watching infomercials and soap operas without fully engaging, my mind racing through every possible reason it could take him so long to return.
He would have gone to Oleg’s penthouse first. If that prick was in any way involved, he’s probably dead by now. If Viktor was home, he’s gone, too. That would be the end of it, though, and my husband would be here. My mental wheels turn frantically as I go over what else Diego might do in this situation. I’ve come to know him well enough that it isn’t difficult. If either of the men weren’t in the penthouse, he would start combing the city looking for them. There are only so many places in Miami they might choose to hide. If they don’t turn up, Diego would come back here to consult with Jaime and track them down.
But he’s not here, and I can’t stop thinking that something terrible has happened to him. He was already injured, and I could see the pain all over his face before he left. He hasn’t been taking his pills, even though he does religiously swallow his antibiotics twice a day.
Oleg isn’t stupid, and neither is Viktor. They must know Diego is on to them, which means they’ve had time to prepare for a counterattack. Did my husband and his men walk into a trap? A barrage of bullets? A bomb set to explode? Do any of those things happen in reality, or only in mafia movies?
