Page 105 of Cinderella and the Daddy
Charles straightens. For Cindy's sake, I almost hope he doesn’t die.
Almost.
I’m not as forgiving as she is. I want to kill Charles for using her. For treating her like shit all those years.
But if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have her now.
That’s the only reason he’s still breathing.
The SUVs park in formation, engines idling, headlights cutting harsh beams through the industrial gloom. Yuri emerges from the center vehicle flanked by six men, all armed, all scanning the shadows for threats they'll never see coming.
Even from fifty yards away, I can see the smugness radiating from him. Yuri Kozlov, the pakhan of what's left of his organization, is convinced he's about to eliminate his last remaining problem and reclaim his position in the hierarchy.
Tonight, it ends.
"Charles," Yuri calls out as he approaches, his Russian accent thick with false camaraderie. "You look like shit, old friend."
"It's been a hard few months," Charles replies. I have to give him credit—his voice is steady.
“You have something I want, and I have something you need,” Yuri says.
"Protection," Charles says. "A way out of this mess."
"Exactly." Yuri stops ten feet away, close enough for conversation, far enough to feel safe. Amateur mistake. "Tell me how to get into Markovic’s compound, and I'll make sure you live to enjoy your retirement in Moscow."
This is it. The moment we've been building toward. Charles glances toward my position, a movement so subtle most people would miss it. But Yuri's not most people.
"Nervous, Charles?" Yuri's voice reveals his suspicions.
"Wouldn't you be?" Charles asks. "This isn't exactly a casual business meeting."
I count to three, then step out of the shadows. The surprise on Yuri's face is priceless.
"Hello, Yuri."
His hand moves toward his weapon, but Viktor's rifle scope is already painting a red dot on his forehead. My other men emerge from their positions like deadly ghosts surrounding Yuri's crew.
"Luka," Yuri says slowly, his eyes darting between me and his trapped soldiers. "I should have known you'd stick your nose into this personally."
"You attacked my home," I say, walking closer with deliberate calm. "Threatened my family. Did you really think I'd handle this through intermediaries? I am going to enjoy killing you myself. I want to be the one who makes you bleed."
"Your family." He spits the words like they taste bitter. "That little bitch you knocked up is not your family. They make you weak."
Wrong thing to say.
My first shot takes him in the shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him to his knees. His men move to help him, but eight gun barrels discourage any heroics.
"You think you've won?" Yuri gasps, pressing a hand to the wound. Blood seeps between his fingers, black in the harbor lighting. "You have no idea what you've started. The families in Moscow, in Chechnya—they'll come for you."
"Let them come." I crouch beside him, letting him see the absolute certainty in my eyes. "Do you know what makes you weak, Yuri?"
He spits blood, aiming for my shoes but missing. Still defiant. Still believing his name carries weight.
"Weakness is sending children to burn a pregnant woman alive," I continue. "Weakness is hiding behind Charles Tremaine instead of facing me yourself. But your greatest weakness?" I lean closer. "You threatened my family. And unlike you, I handle my own problems."
"The old ways," he wheezes. "You shit on tradition. The Bratva will?—"
"The Bratva will adapt or die. Your generation is over."
