by D. A. Young
“Christ! That motherfucker!” Holt groaned while Cruz winced. So fucking unprofessional. “Doesn’t he realize that Pettersson is a goddamn errand boy for Liridon Bojku?!”
Liridon Bojku was a familiar name to them, but not his face. Well known to the underworld, he was clouded in obscurity, his name spoken in hushed, reverent tones. Very few people could claim to have met the man. He preferred to let his handlers and runners earn their positions and run point for him while he watched from the shadows. A fact that Otto clearly had not taken into consideration. Or just hadn’t given a damn about. Holt strongly suspected the latter.
Thea’s laugh was humorless. “I wish I was done! Bojku has decided to wage war on anyone with the last name Falk if Otto isn’t turned over. The Albanian numbers have been increasing there. He’s already burned down one of our warehouses.”
“Told you everything is always the Albanians,” Cruz huffed under his breath to Holt who rolled his eyes at him.
“Stop it. Not everythin’,” he replied. “A public war is bad for business, Thea. Who’s orchestratin’ the damage control?”
“My Dad and Uncle Tage requested a meeting, but Bojku only wants Otto. Preferably with his head on a silver platter. He’s provoking and humiliating him in the streets. People are talking. Our hotheaded cousin is ready to fight and die. He’s too impetuous to win and lacks patience and diplomacy. Ivar has forbidden him to leave the estate. Says if he does, Otto is dead to him. The Albanian can have him. He’ll even gift-wrap his dumb ass for Bojku.”
“And now, Ivar wants me to clean up this shitstorm? Is that why you’re here, darlin’?” Holt regarded her impassively.
“I’m here because everything that drives Otto’s affliction regarding you is true. You are valt en. Whether you like it or not, and our family is stronger together.”
Thea picked up her laptop from the empty seat to her left and placed it in front of Holt with a pleading smile. “Please hear him out; he’s desperate. Desperate times call for desperate measures, love. At least you have the advantage here. Utilize it.”
She grabbed the tray of dessert and liqueur, leaving Holt’s portion behind. Bending down, Thea kissed the crown of his head. “Come along, Mr. Merada. Let’s give John Wayne his privacy.”
Cruz rose, searching Holt’s inscrutable face. “I’ll be right outside, keeping an eye on your home invader.”
Holt waited until the door clicked behind them. The dining room was soundproof, so he wasn’t worried about privacy. It was dealing with Ivar, the recipient of Holt’s dueling rage and contempt. The version that he’d given Kat concerning the Falk patriarch had been grossly understated and the best Holt could do. He damn well couldn’t reveal that he’d fantasized about killing his grandfather. Of his hand encircling Ivar’s neck in a vice-like grip and squeezing until his larynx was crushed and his miserable life faded from his spiteful eyes. If it wasn’t for his mother’s urging to stay the course, Holt would have done so with no qualms.
***
Past
Holt took a steadying breath and slammed his dislocated shoulder against the wall. The blinding pain jarred him and brought fresh tears to his eyes. That son of a bitch. He was going to pay. Not today, though. Holt was patient. The right time would present itself. And when it did…he would be ready and waiting.
“I hate him, Mama. Especially for what he did to you.”
His words were a whisper, yet Elin could feel the volatile emotions bubbling just beneath her sweet boy’s surface, trying to break free. It was like standing next to an active geyser, and her heart broke for Holt. Blinking back tears, she kissed his head.
“You mustn’t say such things, son,” Elin reprimanded. “Let the anger go. Holding onto it will only destroy you. I’ve forgiven him. In order to move on and have the life I wanted, I had to. It was a long time ago, and I got everything I wanted when I had you,” Elin reminded her eight-year-old son. “With you and your father is where I’m most happy.”
“Otto said you were the reason he didn’t have a mother! That if you weren’t a traitor, she would still be here!” Holt fumed. “We’d just finished sparrin’, and he was mad I’d gotten the best of him. Three out of three in hand-to-hand combat. It was nothin’ new, but I knew he was embarrassed with his father and grandfather watchin’ us. You should see Otto, Mama! He always reacts without thinkin’! What do you call that again?”
“Impulsiveness,” Elin filled in absently, thinking of her angry nephew. He’d been groomed to hate her. Before Ziva’s death, the boy had been adorable and always had hugs and kisses for his Moster Elin. After Ziva’s death, instead of “Aunt” he called her ‘‘Monster Elin’’. Neither Tage or Ivar ever corrected him if they heard it.
“Yeah! Impulsiveness. It’ll catch up to him someday. I guess today I was impulsive, too. When Otto said that crap about you, I knocked him on his ass! Where’s Dad?”
“Language, Holton! He’s at the market searching for the lingonberry jam and shortbread that Grandma Brammer likes. Finish telling your story, please.”
“I thought that was the end of it. Until Grandfather pulled us apart. He asked me what happened, and I repeated it. He…” Holt hiccupped and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to swallow his anger. “He…he said…”
Elin’s head lifted slowly, her eyes widening with caution. “Tell me, love. You can always tell me anything, no matter what.”
The anger wasn’t going away. Instead, it was escalating. Holt’s erratic breathing filled the room and his eyes flew open. They were turbulent, and he was trembling as he repeated the words Ivar had spewed rabidly.
“Tell me, boy, what makes you mad? That Otto was right? Your mother is a traitor to this family…and a whore,” Holt reiterated dully. “He laughed in my face when I told him to take it back!”
Ivar was genuinely amused at his grandson’s pique. Holt looked to his Uncle Tage for assistance. His uncle remained silent and stared right through him, making Holt wonder why he’d bothered. His uncle appeared to drift in and out of consciousness. When Tage was present, he acted resentful of him and his family. Holt didn’t think it was because he continuously bested Otto either.
“I will take it back, boy.” Ivar leaned forward on the long stick he used to draw his grandchildren in line when they weren’t paying attention to their instructor. “Your mother isn’t a whore. At least they’re smart enough to charge for their services. She’s a common slut who bit the hand that fed her.”
“What did you do, baby?” Elin demanded, unconsciously dropping her eyes to her prosthetic foot. No one knew more than her what Ivar was capable of, and this time, he’d gone after her baby.
“I told him that he’d better be prepared to meet his maker if he ever disrespected you again.”
Holt omitted the part of yanking the stick with its hand-carved notches out of Ivar’s grasp, causing him to lose his balance. The rebellious action was enough for Holt to execute a perfect out sweep to his grandfather’s foot, affording him the perfect opportunity to crack the stick against Ivar’s cheekbone as he lost his balance and went down. Holt leaped, breaking the stick on his thigh, and landed behind Ivar’s head, pivoting to hold the splintered pieces at his neck, a jagged point purposely against Ivar’s carotid artery.
“Is that why he injured your shoulder?”
Her child and husband were extremely protective of her. Rudii, who was bold, charming, and funny, dried into a husk of the man she’d fallen in love with around Ivar. Elin knew he loved her and was completely devoted to their marriage; however, things had never been quite the same between them since that fateful day. Rudii now followed her cues when dealing with the family. Holton, on the other hand, would not stand for the disrespect. He was quiet, more of an observer until riled. Slow to anger, he was a force to be reckoned with if provoked.
“He didn’t do this to my arm, Mama! Uncle Tage tried to grab me for Grandfather to discipline.”
Elin was confused. “Why did you have—”
<
br /> The bathroom door crashed open, making her jump. Holt stared defiantly, not surprised by the old bastard’s ambush. Ivar’s face was twisted with rage, his left cheek split open and, in his fist, he clutched a bloodied washcloth.
“Give him to me!”
Ivar’s shout drew the attention of other family members who came scurrying to see what the fuss was about. They hovered behind the dictator with bated breath. Elin’s eyes bore into Tage, who looked through her vacantly, his hands on his angry son’s shoulders. Thanks to her, the trajectory of his life was forever changed, and he barely acknowledged her existence.
Elin shoved Holt behind her as her father threw two jagged pieces of wood at her feet.
She noticed drops of blood on the wood, put two-and-two together, and was forced to acknowledge a significant fact.
Everything did still matter.
Right now, what mattered most was protecting her child. If he wasn’t afraid, Elin would not give him anything to fear from this day forward.
“Or what?” She bent down and grabbed the sticks, shifting into an aggressive stance. “Are you actually foolish enough to try and take him from me?” Elin tested, her meaning transparent.
Anyone who came for them would not leave unscathed. Violence sizzled in the air. This was an Elin the family had not seen in nine years. Brows arched condescendingly and sea blue eyes roiling with madness, she was thought to be long gone, broken into submission by Ivar’s actions. With an imminent threat against Holt, Elin Falk was resurrected with a vengeance.
“You think you can go against me, girl?!” His eyes drifted unhurriedly down her body lips curled maliciously. “Me? Beaten by a cripple?! You don’t have the balls or ‘footing’ to!” he mocked.
Elin tensed with rage, ready to spring into kill mode. She’d once been unstoppable, confident with an unrelenting will. So strong that humanity felt like weakness. Then she met Rudii. He exposed Elin’s vulnerability and need for love. Her husband softened her hardness only for Ivar to swoop in and remind her why a shield had been necessary in the first place.
Holt’s hand on her shoulder calmed Elin.
“He’s trying to goad you, Mama. Stay the course,” he calmly encouraged her.
“I’m familiar with this tactic. He’s always been very good at it,” she muttered back, willing her body to loosen up. The tightness would not be good for her leg when she finally made her move. “We both know my worst will result in me delivering your body parts to your sworn enemies around the world. If it’s death you seek, come forward and allow me to give you a glorious departure.”
“How dare you?!”
“Enough! Mother wouldn’t want this!” Julian objected, squeezing through the crowd to stand at their father’s side. “Do not do this! I beg both of you! Especially, in front of the children! This nonsense has gone on long enough. Is death really the only option for peace?”
“I think you meant especially with me being focused this time around, brother. Without my back to him, how does he even stand a chance of ever besting me again?”
Ivar’s growl made Elin grin. They both knew that Julian, ever the diplomat, was giving him a chance to save face. He couldn’t beat Elin, even with her supposed handicap. She’d taken down men twice her size with minimal effort in even more confined situations.
“You’re not worth it. Neither of you is.” Lips barely moving as he uttered the lie, Ivar retreated as did the rest of the family, surveying Elin and Holt with a mixture of awe and jealousy.
“If that’s the untruth that helps you sleep at night, Father dear. I gave my word and will continue to keep it as long as you abide by the terms of our agreement. If you ever in your life think you can come for my child or upset him again, I’ll readily send you straight to hell.”
Spinning on his heel, Ivar stormed from the apartment, his minions following after him. Elin’s butler shut and locked the door behind them. Only then did she relax.
“Thank you for having my back, Holton. Know that I will always have yours as well. Forgive me if you ever felt that I didn’t. I know Otto is older than you, but you are wiser, and he is very angry. I pray that won’t always be the case, and so should you. What you did today opened my eyes to the fact that I’ve allowed Ivar to continue to control my life and drain me of joy. That stops today. There is no excuse for your grandfather’s ugliness, and you must be even more careful around him now. You’ve just made a powerful enemy.”
Holt took Elin’s hand and kissed it.
“And now, so has he, Mama,” he sagely informed her.
She proudly smiled. “Undeniably, he has. You’ve given him much to contemplate. Let’s not mention this incident to your father, Okej?”
“Okej. Can we go home now?”
For the first time in a very long time, Elin’s laughter was light and carefree. “Yes. I think it’s safe to surmise that we’ve overstayed our welcome. Go pack.”
Chapter Ten
“Might as well get this shit over with.”
Holt opened the laptop and made the connection. Immediately, Ivar’s face filled the screen. His once-gilded hair was now snow white and flowed to his shoulders. The contrast to his arctic blue eyes was startling. Even through the screen, Holt could feel the ruthless tentacles of power the cunning bastard had wielded throughout life. Ivar hadn’t become the most respected, yet feared, man in all of Sweden without ambition, persistence, and a fair amount of backstabbing and undermining. Ivar’s unscrupulousness had earned him countless enemies over the years. None of that was surprising to Holt.
What did intrigue him was the obvious exhaustion he could see in Ivar’s haggard face. His grandfather took great pride in his appearance and went to great lengths to preserve his youth. The Falks owned a chain of high-end salons and spas that they frequented regularly to put their most immaculate foot forward. When the Brammers traveled to Sweden, they carried only their toiletries because a complete designer wardrobe awaited them in their apartment. Presently, Ivar’s skin appeared dull, and he had deep shadows under his eyes. The fire that usually blazed in his eyes had been extinguished.
“Nice suit,” Ivar began, in lieu of a greeting. “Kiton?”
“Miss me with that bullshit, old man,” Holt returned, dangerously quiet. He was never in the fucking mood to entertain this asshole. “You fucked this up big time, and now, you’re in over your head. I should have been your first call when shit jumped off.”
His grandfather ignored that, regarding him broodingly. Holton was just like his ungrateful mother when it came to giving him the respect he deserved. And his speech was appalling with his common, gutter rat language and that grating accent. Everything was his bastard father’s fault. Rudii turned Ivar’s daughter and their son against him before Ivar even had a chance to instill Falk values in the lad. Every year Elin returned with less of her accent and more indifferent to him. As for his grandson…Holton owed him his life. He should have been raised in Sweden alongside his cousins instead of in the States. The damage was done. He was too Americanized.
“I expected you to be in that lumberjack get-up you normally prefer. I know how much you love your American roots.”
“Stop bein’ evasive. You know I don’t give a damn about your opinion of my preferences.” Holt settled back in his chair with a sardonic grin. “Never have. Never will. Quit dodgin’ the question. What are you doin’ to find Matty’s assailant? You’ve procrastinated long enough. We both know the window is closin’ the longer we wait to make a move.”
“This is an in-house problem!” Ivar lashed out. “You’ve made your position with us abundantly clear! My prodigal grandson who wants nothing to do with me or to take his rightful place in the family and my company. The only thing you do have time for apparently is being Romankov’s bitch and traipsing around the world with him and that dastardly Spaniard! Is that because you now prefer men to women?”
The tic in Holt’s left eye was the only indication Ivar could detect that he’d gotten und
er his grandson’s skin. A small victory, yes, but one he’d take.
Since the day he’d insulted Elin, Holton was always unflappable, staring coolly through him.
“When we next meet, I want you to say that shit to my face. Word-for-word. Do not confuse my issues with you and certain family members with my loyalty. Make no mistake; I’m strictly in this for Matty. An attack on him is an attack on all of us. Your arrogance and misplaced pride will be to blame if anything else occurs.”
Hearing those words lifted a weight from Ivar’s shoulders, tampering the fight within him. Holton would fulfill his duty. The more that time passed, the distance between them widened, making reconciliation impossible. In his twilight years, Ivar was coming to regret some of his rash choices where his middle grandson was concerned. The damage with Elin and Rudii was irreparable, and Holton’s loyalty to his parents unbreakable. Unconsciously, Ivar stroked the faded scar on his cheek.
His grandson’s value had been established that fateful day. Den valda (The chosen one) was how Ivar viewed him. Even at a young age, Holton knew who he was, and Ivar recognized it, too. Holton was a leader, possessing a natural aptitude for fighting and taking a stand in what he believed. He feared nothing, asked for nothing, and wanted nothing to do with the expectations Ivar had of him–a fact that galled his infuriated grandfather to no end. Everyone else fell in line with his orders disguised as requests and broke their necks to do his bidding. Even Elin had done so to keep the peace until that day Ivar overstepped his bounds.
“It’s about time you stepped up without having to be told,” Ivar grunted, regarding his grandson intently. “I fear that Matty’s attack is only the beginning, that there is a greater plan in motion.”