Page 147 of Bad Bishop
“Oh, I knew. I just didn’t think you’d be such a cunt that you’d throw a grenade into my van. Especially after the betrayal at the gulag.” He almost pouted. “I’m a little hurt. All puns intended.” He jerked his chin to his broken arm.
“You’re telling me my slaughtering dozens of your men was your plan all along?” One corner of my mouth kicked upward in amusement.
“You killed low-ranking men. New recruits. Nobodies. Haven’t you noticed they didn’t give you much of a fight?” He tilted his head. “By the way, Jeremie and Slava have been waiting in the concealed underground bunker with some of our infantry fellas. They should be greeting your soldiers in…” He tried flicking his gaze to his Rolex, before remembering he was handcuffed. “Now.”
A forceful blow sounded from downstairs. Shouts in Russian and Italian erupted. We got lit up by heavy machine guns by the sound of it. I heard the thuds of men falling to the floor. Achilles cursed in Italian. A hand grenade exploded.
Alex chuckled. “Never gets old.”
I shook my head. I always admired Alex’s shrewdness. In another life, we’d still be friends.
He could’ve killed me. He had every opportunity to do it today. He had the upper hand. Knew he was being ambushed.
“You let me kill twenty of your soldiers?” I shook my head.
Alex jerked his healthy shoulder. “You needed to get it out of your system. And I knew I could take out you and those Italian fuckers, if need be. Besides.” A sly grin marred his face wickedly. “I needed to get rid of Igor, and a Julius Caesar–style assassination would’ve made taking over incredibly difficult, as you can imagine.”
Mother. Fucking. Fucker.
That was a level of sly I could only aspire to.
Finally, I let myself grin, shaking my head. “You’re a bastard.”
Alex shrugged. “Eh, well, better than being a traitor.”
“I didn’t want to be,” I offered honestly. “It was either that or death.”
“I would’ve died for you back then,” he said seriously. “You were the family I chose. I’d have done anything for you, if you justasked.”
I clutched my jaw in my fist to stop myself from apologizing, because I knew he was telling the truth, and still, no part of me—past or present—was willing to run the risk of telling him my real plans. It was what it was. All rebirths required a death. My sacrifice was my friendship with the person I considered my brother.
Still, I couldn’t see myself taking Alex’s life, in the same way I couldn’t see myself doing it to Tierney or Fintan. No matter how much time had passed, he was still my brother.
“Well, unzip me so we can sort this shit out,” Alex grumbled. “My arm’s killing me.”
I pulled my knife out and rounded his chair, slicing the zip tie between his wrists. He stood up and staggered to his desk, where I grabbed his arm and helped relocate it. Alex tore his dress shirt off his chest, wrapping it around his shoulder to create a makeshift sling around his arm. He had an identical tattoo, the same as mine, on his shoulder.
Oderint Dum Metuant.
We got it together with Tierney when we were fourteen. The night before she and I ran away.
My phone buzzed. Fintan again.
I looked up at Alex. “We need to wrap it up quickly.”
He was busy tending to his arm. “You blew up my vans, killed my soldiers, stole my ammo, and slaughtered my pakhan. Give me your best offer and I’ll see if it’s good enough to keep you alive. I have my own reputation to uphold.”
“My best offer is not to put a bullet in your head,” I said generously. “Your father stole our childhood, our innocence, our family, ourmother. I’m not budging an inch. It’s a matter of principle.”
Downstairs, there was a pause between shooting, theclinksandclanksof magazines changing echoing through the hanger.
Alex looked up. “Iamsorry, you know.”
“Wasn’t your fault.”
“Doesn’t make me any less sorry.”
We stepped outside and took the metal stairway down to the ground floor, where the Camorra and Irish barricaded themselves behind flipped tables while the Bratva advanced toward them in full field gear.
