Dirty Hearts: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance
“Your date hasn’t begun.”
“I’m wearing leather pants. It has surely begun.” He glanced down at his outfit. “However, I must admit this is comfortable.”
“Why are they following us?”
“Because their little leader, Jean-Pierre, has his panties in a bunch.”
“Must you refer to him in the feminine?”
“He reminds me of a woman.”
“Are you saying women are weak?”
“No, I’m saying Jean-Pierre should’ve gone into dressmaking, instead of a life of crime.”
I shook my head.
“It’s the truth.” He pouted. “I’m sorry about your phone.”
“Make sure it’s working.”
“I put in the orders.”
“You better or I’m going to put my foot in your ass.”
“So violent. Would you really let your foot mess up my nifty leather pants?”
I held in my laughter and tried to stay mad.
Why do I even attempt to be pissed with him? He’s so fucking spoiled and irresistible.
I sighed. “Have you figured out what we’re doing today?”
He studied me. “I have an idea.”
I wore an outfit similar to his—a classically tailored blazer for women with almost the same patterned tweed jacket, except mine had slits in the back and many elegant details to accentuate the timeless style.
“Give me your guesses,” I said.
“We’re going dancing.”
“No.”
He looked at my jacket and then his. “We’re starting a band.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Clown school.”
“Kazimir, the outfit is not that bad.”
“It is, but at least you’re talking to me.”
“Barely.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
Our limo traveled down a long country road and headed onto a private path. The vans of Corsican made a different turn. Surely, they would be parked off in the shadows waiting for us to come out.
“Why do you think they’re following us?” I asked.
“I killed Sasha and hung his body up. Now, I’ve flown to France. I’m sure their panties are in a bunch.”
“Enough with the panty metaphors, Kaz, and people don’t get nervous about things unless they’re guilty or…”
He grinned. “Or?”
“Or you’re the baddest motherfucker on the scene and it scares them. Basically, I would be nervous if you were visiting my country.”
“What are you saying?” He shrugged. “I’m an excellent tourist.”
“Your visit in New York changed the landscape of Manhattan.”
“That was Sasha’s fault. He bombed the building.”
“Prague will probably never be the same after the castle shooting.”
“In all fairness, Prague is used to that behavior after Uncle Igor’s oddities.”
I smiled. “Tell me about the Corsican.”
“I would rather spend my time talking about something more important.”
“Still.”
“Their little leader is named Jean-Pierre. He wasn’t the head until recently. In these past years, he gained a reputation. They’ve been calling him The Butcher.”
“Didn’t they used to call Luka, ‘The Butcher’?”
“Yes, but that was different. Luka earned it. Jean-Pierre is just a maniac with several special knives.”
“Why is Jean-Pierre rising in reputation?”
“Because he was fighting Uncle Igor for three years over another matter. I gave my uncle some men and weapons thinking Jean-Pierre and his cousins would be put in their place. It didn’t happen.”
I quirked my eyebrows. “He beat your uncle?”
“No, but Jean-Pierre definitely kicked his ass in their little war. Some of it spilled into Russia. They manhandled some of the brothers. It became embarrassing. I actually flew to Paris one time with Sasha to talk him, hoping he would stop.”
“Why not fight Jean-Pierre yourself?”
“It would’ve looked like I was helping Uncle Igor.”
“And your uncle wanted to destroy Jean-Pierre on his own?”
“Yes. And this all started over some woman. She played something, violin or flute. It doesn’t matter. Jean-Pierre was sneaking into her apartment and watching her sleep.”
“What the fuck?”
“Exactly. He stalked her without her knowing.”
“How did Uncle Igor get involved?”
“The flute player’s aunt was a mistress to my uncle. She came to him with the problem.”
“Earlier, you kept saying them, but I thought you were only talking about Jean-Pierre.”
“Jean-Pierre has three cousins. They’re always together or paired up. Each has their own crew, but united, they were unstoppable for my uncle.”
I gazed back at the vans again. “Why do they call Jean-Pierre The Butcher?”
“He likes to cut people. I’m told he carries around a violin case full of different sized blades, and when people don’t do what he wants, he plays a death song on their skin.” Kazimir doubled over with laughter.
“That’s not funny.”
More laughter came. “I find it all comical. A death song? Violin bows with blades? Why not just shoot them in the head?”
“He sounds psychotic.”
“He’s a frilly little man. I don’t believe the rumors.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Jean-Pierre looks like the type of man that spends three hours primping in front of the mirror and styling his hair. Valentina calls him my elegant villain. She said all heroes need one.”
“You and Valentina are crazy.” I chuckled.
“She’s a fan of the Butcher. Due to that, I’ve left him alone, but if he keeps sending his men to follow us, I’ll play my own death song on him.”
I turned away from the vans. “Do you think they’ll be a problem today?”