Page 156 of Dance of Defiance
A strong hand lands on my shoulder as I step towards my father. I whirl to see Stepan glaring at me.
“Respectyour father, Roman,” he rumbles.
“Da,” Papa snarls, jamming a finger in my chest again. “Respect.Little shit.”
He turns away. When he does, Stepan squeezes my shoulder. I glance back at him and he shakes his head side to side, mouthing “please” and looking at me with kind, determined eyes.
“Not when he’s like this,” he murmurs under his breath as he dips his mouth to my ear and pats my shoulder.
“I didn’t do anything,” I growl, turning back to my father.
“No? She just ran off?” he snaps, whipping around to glare at me.
“It would appear that way,pakhan,” Stepan says. “The Lukashov family is, suffice to say, fuming, and tearing the city apart. If they thought Roman or any of us was to blame, I’m sure we’d know.”
My father grits his teeth. “Da.Bogdan and I spoke earlier. He’s…” He looks away, his shoulders lowering. “He doesn't think it was us.” Papa peers closely at me again. “Soit better not be.”
“It’snot, Papa,” I growl.
He watches me, his eyes cold. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you don’t seem too upset about any of this.”
“I didn’t want to marry her.”
He snorts. “Why not? Money, consolidation of power, enormous tits?” He scowls at me. “What more do you want?”
My jaw tightens. “Love. I didn’t love her.”
He barks a cold, chilling laugh. “Love?!” He sneers at me. “What are you, a sissy boy? Apidoraz? Marriage isn’t aboutlove, Roman. It’s about power.” He walks around to the other side of his desk and sits. “On that note, it’s time to start playing this game more aggressively.”
Stepan frowns worriedly. “Pakhan?”
Papa pushes the intercom button on his desk. “Send them in,” he barks.
His office door suddenly opens. Stepan and I turn to see three surly, gruff, military types stride in.
It takes me a second to recognize the obvious leader, a heavily tanned middle-aged man with silvering, crewcut hair, a stocky build and a scar on his jaw, dressed in khakis and a black leather jacket. But when I do…
Fuck.
“You remember Gunner Krige, yes?”
There’s no stopping the sour expression that spreads over my face.
Yeah, I know Gunner and his men.
Papa hired the South African mercenaries who specialize in hunting down targets a couple of times: first, when one of his topavtoritetsraided one of our trafficking houses and ran off with about two mil in cash and another two-point-five in coke. The second time was when a girl Papa was seeing went AWOL with some diamond jewelry that wasn’t exactly hers to keep.
I was forced to witness the conclusions to both those “hunts”, and I’m not sure I’ll ever rid myself of those memories, especially the girlfriend.
I also know Gunner and his men via the Black Court, though he obviously never knew me asmethere. We hired him and his men to track down especially elusive people we’d targeted for trial by the Black Court. But when our first “target” came to us missing an eye and fucking hand, we realized what a sadistic psychopath he was, and parted company with Gunner and his goons.
Stepan also clearly remembers who he is, and bristles as Gunner and his men come to a stop in the middle of the room.
“Pakhan,” Stepan growls, turning to my father. “If I may have a word?—”
“You may not,” Papa grunts. “Dasha Lukashova is worth too much to not be found or to have someone else find her. You will give Gunner and his men free and open use of our resources, is that clear?”
When Stepan doesn’t reply, Papa walks over and gets right in his face.
