Vasin gave a nod of his head as they passed him on their way to Mishca’s Mercedes, shifting his weight to his opposite foot as Vasin’s gaze immediately moved from them to the door they had exited.
Mishca hadn’t always been paranoid—not like this, anyway—but it had only taken getting shot for him to put things into perspective. And when Sacha was born, he had only doubled down.
After he got Sacha into his car seat and climbed behind the wheel, it was straight from home to the brownstone he was renting in the Bronx. Unlike his office at the club, it wasn’t as easily accessible, and it gave him the unique ability to take Sacha along with him where he had a room he could play in if needed.
A familiar dirty Jeep Wrangler hugged the curb in front of the brownstone, looking severely out of place with the sheer amount of mud and grass that caked the thing next to the BMWs and a Jaguar that looked brand new. Where its owner managed to find this much filth in the city of Manhattan, Mishca didn’t know.
But Luka was unpredictable that way.
Letting himself in through the back door, he lowered Sacha to the floor and watched as he took off down the hall. Sacha was as familiar with this place as he was their home.
Mishca liked to think he enjoyed it here. There was more space here for him to play. Even as big as the penthouse was, it had started to feel smaller now. Inevitable considering he had moved in there as a bachelor and now he was married with a son.
That had been enough for him to mull over the possibilities of buying something more permanent, and with Lauren casually mentioning wanting a house—with a big yard for Sacha to play in—he was giving it more thought as of late.
“So I stuck a pair of pliers right up his—pak minion!—little minion!”
Mishca turned the corner just in time to see the expression on Luka’s face. He’d been about to describe, in rather graphic detail, what he had intended to do to whatever poor man had been on the receiving end of his favorite pastime, but just as quickly, his face turned comically bright with excitement as Sacha ran directly for him.
Most days, the six and a half foot Albanian with a penchant for violence and pain was impossible to deal with. He liked to fuck with people until they reacted—which was merely an excuse to commit some grievous act against them—but whenever Sacha was near, he turned into someone else entirely.
He doted on him as much as Mishca and Lauren did, and even more so sometimes because, unlike them, he never said no.
And unfortunately for them, Sacha seemed to know it.
If Luka was around, that meant an endless supply of fruit snacks—organic, apparently, and made from real fruit because this was fucking Luka—no matter what his parents had to say about it.
Mishca could only imagine how much he would spoil his own child.
The man Luka had been talking to nodded respectfully at Mishca before heading out the door and leaving them alone.
“Where’s Vladislav?”
Luka’s smile remained in place, though there seemed to be a sharp edge to it now. “Running late … apparently.”
Which meant it was deliberate, considering Mishca was already ten minutes late himself.
You didn’t keep the pakhan waiting when he summoned you for a meeting.
It just wasn’t done.
“I have four pounds of lye and inspiration,” Luka offered with a pointed look at Mishca. “If you want me to—”
“Let’s rain check that, yes?”
He couldn’t kill the man before he had his questions answered. Depending on the explanations he gave—or lack thereof—would determine whether Luka would need to pay him a personal visit.
“There’s a reason man created knives is all I’m saying.”
Mishca scoffed, his lips turning up at the corner despite himself. He’d had years to get used to Luka’s warped sense of humor, but he could never trust what he would say next. “I doubt they were made for you to kill people.”
“They were made to hunt, no? Survival of the fittest? But I don’t have to use the lye, if that’s your issue … Maybe I can just carve into them a bit. Give ’em a smile or something.” He gave a little demonstration with his index finger, his smile growing a little as he illustrated a crooked smile.
If Mishca hadn’t trusted him implicitly, he would never leave Sacha in a room alone with him. Luka could be a bit terrifying when he was in a killing rut.
“How’s Alex?”
With how busy he was with the bratva and raising a two-year-old, he didn’t get to see too much of his sister when she was actually in town. And even if it had only been a few weeks since he had last seen her, he still thought it was imperative to ask.
“Misses me,” Luka replied with a shrug that said he felt the same way.
Duty kept him here.
Because he had taken an oath, and he knew, better than anyone probably, that there was no walking away from the bratva. Otherwise, Mishca was sure Luka would have already packed what little he owned and moved his shit, his dog, Loki, and himself to Paris where Alex was currently living.
“Is she still coming home for the holidays?” he asked.
“Christmas,” Luka said quickly as if he were anticipating the day. “She’ll be here for a couple of weeks.”
Mishca was glad.
Not just because he missed his sister, and Lauren would be happy to see her more, but because she kept Luka sane, and the longer she stayed gone, the more he tended to spiral.
Prime example. His willingness to torture someone they only thought was stealing.
With that thought at the forefront of his mind, Mishca was reminded why they were there as the doorbell rang. Seconds later, it was opened by one of his brigadiers standing on the other side, and two men with unreadable expressions walked in.
Vladislav, the man in front, was one of the last of his father’s men who’d, surprisingly, fallen into line and didn’t protest the change in power.
At least on the surface.
Whispers still got around, though.
That Vladislav was making side deals and seeing just how far he could stretch his reach without Mishca finding out.
He couldn’t prove any of it yet, but it was only a matter of time before the man slipped up.
They always did.
“You wanted to see me?” Vladislav asked as the other man, Yegor or Yefim—whatever his name was—moved off to the side and folded his arms across his chest.
Mishca got comfortable in his chair, his gaze briefly flickering to Sacha, but he didn’t have to worry. This would not be one of those meetings.
“Thirty-seven thousand, two hundred, and fifty-six,” he said, returning his gaze to the reason he was agitated.
He had the audacity to blink as if the number was foreign. “What’s that?”
“I have 37,256 reasons why I needed to see you,” he said simply. “Your box was short this month.”
Color rose on the man’s neck even as his face paled. “That doesn’t sound right.”
Mishca cocked a brow. “Are you saying I’m wrong?”
In the years since he had taken over for his father, Mishca had long since done away with Mikhail’s old system of collecting envelopes filled with cash that were passed around a table at the beginning of the month.
Instead, he had his men rent safe deposit boxes.
Not only did it pass through fewer hands, but the chance of discovery was also slim.
Yefim snorted from the other side of the room, pushing off the wall. “That’s bullshit.”
“Language,” Luka called with a raise of his hand, still content on the floor with Sacha who remained unaware of the conversation going on around him.
Mishca ignored the man entirely. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”
“If I was short,” Vladislav said glibly, “there must be a mistake somewhere.”
“I counted that fucking bag myself,” Yefim butted in, his voice louder now.
“Language,” Luka stressed again
, his expression a little darker.
Annoyed, Mishca finally gave the man the attention he was looking for. Though Yefim was a couple of years older than him, he hadn’t moved positions since Mishca was a captain.
He was one of the few who, while he’d fallen in line, he didn’t mind harping on about what he missed from Mikhail’s reign.
They wanted the stables back open where they thought women couldn’t tell them no.
They wanted taxes back on Russian neighborhoods because they were considered easy money.
Mishca didn’t give a fuck what they wanted.
“You’re doing a lot of protesting for an innocent man.”
If anything, the man’s expression grew more tense. “If the shit is—”
Luka cleared his throat loudly, but before he spoke, he cupped his hands over Sacha’s ears, who seemed to think it was some sort of game they were playing as he attempted to do the same to him.
But what was most alarming was the way Luka’s smile stayed wide—though it now looked more like a baring of his teeth than anything else.
“I will put your balls in a fucking vise grip before slitting your goddamn throat with a box cutter. Watch your fucking language, yeah? Or I’ll give you a reason to.”
The remark was clearly rhetorical because just as quickly as his rage seemed to encompass the room, he was back to playing with Sacha. “Oh, let’s not color Uncle Luka’s tattoos. Your aunt thinks you’ll give me ink poisoning.”
It was a sight, seeing the way Luka shifted from vicious to caring in the short span of time it took for Sacha to grab a marker off the table.
Even as Luka tried, though even that was a stretch, to steer him away from the prospect of coloring his skin, it couldn’t have been more than a second later that he was yanking his shirt off and allowing his torso to become a human canvas.
Only Mishca didn’t react to the threat in Luka’s words.
Though he was the only one.
Vladislav looked as if he were seconds from urinating himself and wanting to get the hell away as quickly as possible. Yefim didn’t show fear the same way Vladislav did. He merely tucked his hands in his pockets and angled his body toward the door.
“I counted the sh—” He caught himself before he could finish the word, his gaze flickering in Luka’s direction. “I counted it myself. If something was missing, it didn’t happen on our end.”
Mishca didn’t trust that for a second. “Have my money by noon tomorrow. And Vladislav? I suggest you clean up your men. You don’t want me to do it for you.”
Vladislav nodded tightly. “Sovershenno—Absolutely. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
He quickly got to his feet, gave a short bow of his head, then walked out the door without looking back, Yefim at his heels.
Luka perked up from the floor. “So … about those knives …”
Chapter 3
“I’m just saying,” Lauren said. Squeezing the water from her hair, she twisted the strands up into a bun as she stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around her middle. “Someone a lot less nice than me is going to tell her off one day, and I hope I’m there to see it because she deserves it.”
Mishca chuckled, the sound distorted from the fall of water he was still standing under in the shower, steam obstructing her view of him. “You sound like Luka.”
Maybe she did, but Luka would have handled the situation differently. If Jessica had been a man and said those very same things, he might have very well used her face as a punching bag. And that was only if there was no chance he could do anything a little more … permanent.
Lauren only wanted her to just go away—she didn’t want her to die.
It didn’t matter that hours had passed since that conversation, or that she really shouldn’t have been thinking about it anymore. The moment Mishca had walked into the house with Sacha in tow, she had given Sacha all her love first before launching into her annoyance of the day.
“I just don’t understand,” Lauren said with a shake of her head, “why she needs to be an asshole all the time. One day of being a decent human being wouldn’t kill her, I don’t think.”
The shower cut off a moment before the door opened and Mishca stepped out, dripping wet. Unashamed, she caught his reflection in the mirror she was standing in front of and drank him in.
Three years, a healthy appetite, and playing in the park with Sacha—on the mornings when he didn’t go to the gym—had done wonders for him, considering he’d managed to pack on another ten pounds of muscle. There had always been definition in his chest and arms, but there was no mistaking the cut lines now.
And while he grew better with age, she’d changed too with time.
Her hips were a little wider.
Her thighs touched.
And there was even a curve to her stomach that annoyed her some days while she couldn’t be bothered on others.
Not that Mishca seemed to mind.
That quickly, she forgot all the reasons why she was upset and ranting and instead, took her time following the droplets of water that trickled down the flat plane of his stomach with her gaze.
It was almost rude how good he looked most days. He made it look terribly easy, though she wasn’t complaining … much.
“A lot of people don’t have a reason,” he said with a shrug, reaching for a towel. “They’re just assholes to be assholes. Don’t let them bother you.”
Easier said than done.
But before she could voice the thought aloud, Mishca walked over to her, running that towel over the damp curling strands of his hair, his gaze riveted to her.
There never had to be any words between them for the mood to shift. Sometimes it only took a glance—a whisper of something more, and she would be reminded of just how she had fallen pregnant.
He just had that effect on her.
She turned, bracing her hands against the sink behind her as she watched his approach. The heat was already curling down her spine, making her antsy and eager.
Desperate, almost, for the feel of him.
It was only a bonus that he was gloriously naked beneath the towel hanging low on his waist. She was itching to take it off him already.
He waited until he was there, close enough that she could inhale the scent of him and practically feel the heat exuding from his body.
He smiled as if he already knew the effect he had on her. “Let’s see about making your night better, hmm?”
How could she possibly turn down that offer?
Even before she was nodding eagerly, he wrapped his arm around her waist and tugged her away from the counter.
He carried her as if she weighed nothing at all, sliding her down the length of his body and onto the bed once she felt the edge of the mattress at the back of her knees.
Every inch of her skin seemed to prickle with awareness, goose bumps breaking out along her arms. But when she felt the unmistakable hardness of his cock, she couldn’t help the gasp that sounded impossibly loud in the silence of the room.
His grin was nothing short of mischievous as he looked down at her before he tugged at the cinch in her towel and pulled it loose. “Let’s not wake Sacha this time, yes?”
He took his time making his way down her body as if this were the very first time all over again. He lingered over the stars beneath her collarbone. The sight of them always seemed to shift his demeanor. Pride lit up his eyes.
Then came something a little darker.
Hunger.
Possession.
She didn’t think there would ever be a time when those stars didn’t have an effect on him. He liked the mark because it was his, probably more than the rather large ring on her finger.
Before his lips met the curve of her hip, her fingers sunk into the thick, curling strands of his hair, eagerness making her impatient as he ventured lower.
The brush of his lips, the gentle swipe of his tongue, and even the bite of his teeth sparked new sensations that thrummed through h
er.
He never even gave her the chance to be self-conscious about the changes in her own body, not when he touched her the same way he had when this had all been so new between them.
He wanted her.
From the way his hands curled around her thighs to keep them open, and the masculine sound he made in the back of his throat when his gaze leveled on her pussy.
She was damn lucky. She never had to tell him what she wanted—he always seemed to know.
But even as she was silently begging for him to get on with it—feeling as if she would orgasm the moment he got his face between her legs—he seemed far too engrossed with making her wait.
“Mish …”
His name was all she managed before he stroked a finger over her sex, feeling the drenched folds. She parted her legs even farther, if that were possible, hoping to entice him to give her more.
And quickly.
“Ty khochesh,’ chtoby ya umolyal tebya—Do you want me to beg?” she asked on a broken whisper, close to losing her mind.
But just as she’d hoped, those words were the only encouragement he needed before he finally, finally buried his face between her legs.
A gasp escaped her, quickly followed by a long moan of need as he licked and sucked at her, driving her need higher.
God, he was fucking good at that. Stoking the fire. Eating her as if he was a starving man and she needed to be his last meal.
He growled something dark and foreign against her flesh—a praise, she had no doubt—but she could hardly hear a word of it with the blood rushing in her ears and the way her thoughts seemed to be centered on the crest quickly approaching.
So fast that she had no time at all to brace herself before her fingers were clenching in his hair and his name was spilling from her lips.
It was too much.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
Before she even had a chance to come all the way down, he moved up her body, his movements rushed, his own need riding him as hard as it was her.
She only had a moment—a second—to feel the blunt head of his cock brushing over her before he gripped it in his fist, liberally coating himself in her wetness before he was pushing inside her, his eyes falling shut in bliss.
Down the Line (Volkov Bratva Book 6) Page 2