Torrid (Sordid 2)

The grin began slowly, and then raced across my face. He was a good liar, I had to give him that. “Wow. That’s a really great story.”

He didn’t like what I’d implied, and beneath his fake outrage, I could see the flicker of worry. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means cut the fucking bullshit. All of it. The stuff about family, and loyalty, and anything else you pretend to care about, but don’t. You didn’t have David killed, because I went to his shitty condo a few weeks ago,” I grew louder and more bitter with each word, “and I fucking did it myself.”

He cracked, just a little. Wrinkles puckered around his eyes and made him look old and weak. “Then . . . I guess you’re not a pussy like your brother.”

I balled my free hand into a fist, fighting the urge to pull the trigger. Not yet. Be patient. “You had David lie. Tear my mother’s name down. And when that was done, you sent him to kill her.”

“She couldn’t be trusted.” He leaned forward and rubbed the crease on his forehead. “When you run the family, safety is everything, and sometimes you have to . . . make hard choices.”

I choked out a hollow laugh. “Yeah, well, I guess I’ll find out about that soon enough.”

The phone in his pocket chirped. As I pushed up off the couch and came to my feet, rather than look threatened, my uncle was amused. “Am I going somewhere?”

“First your memory fails you, and now it’s your eyesight, old man. I’ve got my Glock pointed right at you.”

“You’re a stupid, impulsive little boy, Vasilije. I sent an alert to Filip before I sat down, and all this time you’ve been going on, it’s given him time to get back to the house.” He raised his voice. “You can come in.”

Filip’s shadow darkened the doorway, and then he stepped into the room. His gun was in his holster, not drawn. My uncle stared at him, concerned at the lack of defense. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh,” I said, “he doesn’t work for you anymore.” Who was impulsive now? “It’s because you’re fucking broke.”

Goran jerked back in his seat. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve got more money than God.”

“Oh, yeah?” My cheeks hurt from how hard I smiled. “Who helps you manage it?”

The frozen expression on his face was fucking priceless.

“Luka told me,” I continued, “you don’t always need a gun to destroy a man. Sometimes all you need is an idiot who doesn’t read the shit he signs, and patience.” It’d been fourteen months since Luka had started transferring investments and titles, burying the language in refinancing papers or opening new bank accounts so our uncle could ‘avoid taxes.’

His face flushed and his breathing picked up. Worry had been far away seconds ago, but now it was right on top, crushing him. As Oksana had distracted him last night, I’d taken the risk of reaching out to Filip. He hadn’t told my uncle any of the shit Aleksandar had said about Oksana.

I could trust Filip, and showed him he could trust me when I’d laid out all our plans. It hadn’t taken him long to agree. He wanted to be on the winning side of this evening, and thank fuck. Having Filip meant I also had his men, and that’d make the transition easier when I was the most vulnerable.

I aimed for my uncle’s heart as I spoke to Filip. “Is he armed? Any weapons nearby he can get to?”

“Nope.”

Perfect. I stared into Goran’s black eyes and savored the moment. He’d stolen my mother away from me, and I loved watching it dawn on him that everything was being taken away from him. His money. His men. His throne.

“Oksana,” I said.

She’d sat so still and silent, my uncle’s gaze went to her with surprise, like he’d forgotten she was there. She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen until music played from it. The overture of my symphony. I was being dramatic again, but didn’t care what anyone thought about it.

“Sergey will eat you alive,” Goran snarled. “Everything I’ve built, he’ll destroy. You won’t last six months.”

The music was just like me. Seemingly pleasant, but evil beneath. “Sergey won’t be a problem. Konstantine will take the truce I give him.”

“You’re fucking nuts. The Russians won’t deal with you.”

I took a step back, realizing I was too close. I didn’t want to get blood on the suit. “They will, because the girl sitting on your couch? She’s Sergey Petrov’s other daughter.”

The music swelled, revealing the dark nature. Real panic overwhelmed my uncle and transformed his face. Jesus Christ, he looked pathetic. “Vasilije, put it down. I’m family. I’m your blood.” He lifted his hands, half in surrender. “You can’t do this.”