Savage Hearts: Chapter 2

The man standing across from my desk is tall, hulking, and silent.

Dressed entirely in black, including a heavy wool overcoat beaded with the evening rain, he stares at me with an emotionless look that somehow also conveys a capacity for extreme violence.

Or maybe I only think that because of his reputation. This is the first time we’ve met, but the man is a legend in the Bratva.

Almost as legendary as I am.

In Russian, I say, “Take a seat, Malek.” I gesture to the chair beside him.

He shakes his head in refusal, which irritates me.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

His green eyes flash. A muscle slides in his jaw. His big hands form fists briefly then flex open again, as if he needs to smash something. But he controls his anger quickly and sits.

Apparently, he likes being issued orders as little as I do.

We gaze at each other in silence for a while. The clock ticks ominously on the wall like the countdown to an explosion.

He offers no polite greeting. There’s no pleasant small talk, no effort to get acquainted. He merely sits and waits, patient and mute as a sphinx.

I sense we could go on like this forever, so I start. “My condolences for your loss. Your brother was a good man.”

He replies in English. “I don’t want your sympathy. I want you to tell me where I can find the man who killed Mikhail.”

I’m surprised that he doesn’t have a trace of an accent. His voice is low and even, as emotionless as his eyes. Only the pulse pounding in the side of his neck gives any evidence of humanity.

I’m even more surprised that he’d dare to speak to me with such flat disregard.

Few people are that stupid.

My voice as cold as my stare, I say, “If you want permission to operate on my soil, I advise you to show me respect.”

“I don’t need your permission. I don’t show respect unless it’s earned. And I’m only here because I was told you’re the one with the information I need. If that’s incorrect, stop wasting my time and say so.”

Bristling, I grind my molars and consider him.

I’d normally shoot a man for that kind of disrespect. But I’ve already got too many enemies. The last thing I need is an army of Bratva from Moscow descending on Manhattan with the intent of separating my head from my body because I buried the vicious Hangman who serves their king.

Not that they could. Even this enormous bearded asshole sitting across from me is no match for my skills. If I decided to kill him, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

Plus, if he does take out Declan O’Donnell, head of the Irish Mob and a man I’d very much like to see dead, Malek will be doing me a solid.

But still.

My house, my rules.

And rule number one is show me respect or bleed out on the rug, motherfucker.

My voice deadly soft, I hold his gaze and say, “The Irish murdered my parents and both my sisters. So when I say I know how you feel, I’m not talking out my ass. But if you continue acting like a mannerless cunt, I’ll send you back to Moscow in a thousand bloody pieces.”

A brief silence follows. “You know what would happen if you did that.”

“Yes. Ask me how many fucks I give.”

He examines my expression. Weighs my words. A hint of warmth surfaces in his eyes, but dies a quick death, smothered by darkness.

Solemn, he nods. “My apologies. Mikhail was my only brother. The only family I had left.”

He turns his head, looks out the window to the rainy night, swallows. When he glances back at me, his jaw is clenched, and his gaze is murderous. His voice turns rough. “Now, all I have left is vengeance.”

It’s very clear: Malek is going to make Declan O’Donnell wish he were never born.

Cheered by that thought, I smile.

“Apology accepted. Let’s drink.”

From the bottom drawer of my desk, I remove a bottle of vodka and two glasses. I pour a measure into each and offer one to Malek. He takes it and nods his thanks.

I raise my glass. “Za zdorovie.”

He shoots the vodka down, swallowing it in a single gulp. Then he sets the glass on the edge of my desk and settles back into his chair, tattooed hands spread over his massive thighs.

“So. This Irish bastard. Where is he?”

“I’ll give you his last known address, but he’s cleared out since then. At the moment, he’s a ghost.”

I don’t offer that my contact inside the FBI has no idea where Declan went, either. Or that I’m keeping Declan’s former boss, Diego, hostage in one of my warehouses near the docks.

There’s no need to show every card in my hand.

That stubborn bastard Diego has so far refused to disclose any useful information, anyway. But if anyone’s going to get it out of him, it’ll be me.

I’ll be damned if I’ll hand my captive over to this arrogant out-of-towner.

Malek says, “Not a problem. Just give me whatever you have. I’ll find him.”

I don’t doubt that. He looks like he’d burn down every city on the face of the earth to locate Declan if he had to.

There’s nothing more single-minded than a man out for blood.

We discuss a few more details that might be helpful in his search before I broach what I know will be a delicate subject.

“He’s got a woman with him. Under no circumstances can she be harmed.”

I watch him carefully for his reaction. He says nothing, but in his silence, I sense dissent.

“It’s nonnegotiable. If she gets even a scratch, you’re dead.”

He knits his brows together. “Since when does the dreaded Reaper care about collateral damage?”

I hesitate, knowing exactly how bad what I’m going to say will sound. “She’s family.”

He digests that in unmoving silence for about thirty seconds, then repeats slowly, “Family.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it for me.”

I ignore the urge to pull the Glock out of the top drawer of the desk and blow a nice big hole through his skull and pour us more vodka instead.

“My woman’s tight with Declan’s.”

One of his dark brows forms a distinctly disbelieving arch.

I’d like to rip that eyebrow clean off and stuff it down his throat.

Fuck, this prick’s annoying.

Through gritted teeth, I say, “They were childhood friends. Obviously, it predates our present situation.”

Malek pauses to drink his vodka before answering. “Inconvenient.”

“You have no idea.”

“What if it looks like an accident?”

“If the Irishman’s woman doesn’t live to an advanced old age, no matter the cause, I’ll be held responsible.”

We stare at each other. He says, “By your woman.”

“Yes.”

He pauses another beat. “She’d get over it eventually.”

My smile is dark. “You don’t know Natalie.”

He’s starting to look confused. “So you’re not the head of this family? She is?”

He’s got about ten seconds of life left, and the clock is ticking.

I snap, “I take it you’re not married.”

He grimaces. “Of course not.”

“In a relationship?”

“Is that a joke?”

“Then you couldn’t possibly understand.”

He looks around the room as if trying to find someone more reasonable to speak to.

“You don’t have to comprehend, Malek. You just have to abide by the request.”

“It sounded more like an order.”

My smile is grim. “Call it what you like. The result of noncompliance will be the same: death. I’ll make it slow and painful.”

We gaze at each other in tense silence until he says, “It’s been a long time since anyone threatened me.”

“I believe you. It isn’t personal.”

“Of course it’s personal.”

“Like I said, you couldn’t understand. Get yourself a fiancée, and it’ll become clearer.”

I have to admit, the expression of incredulity on his face is perversely satisfying.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Stroking a hand over his dark beard, he watches me with calculating eyes. There’s a distinct possibility he’s debating how he’d like to kill me, but I simply wait for him to decide which way this conversation will go.

Eventually, he says, “A fiancée. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Knowing that’s as close as he’ll get to admitting he’s decided not to bother with an attempt on my life and also will spare Sloane when he kills Declan, I smile. “Thank you. You’ll come to the wedding, of course.”

He looks like he’d rather be roasted alive and fed to wild dogs, but he finally shows some manners and says solemnly, “It would be my honor.”

We drink another toast. We talk for a few more moments. I give him a picture of Declan and another of Sloane, both of which he tucks into his coat pocket. Then he rises unexpectedly and informs me he has to be on his way.

Without a farewell, he turns and heads to the door.

“Malek.”

His hand on the door handle, he pauses to look back at me.

“Don’t harm any other women while you’re at it, either.”

He gazes at me in that silent, annoying way he has that makes me want to grab the nearest machete and start hacking away at his neck, if only to get a reaction.

“Just don’t kill any fucking females that might be around when you’re taking care of your business, all right?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I’ll be able to sleep better at night.”

Contempt in his tone, he says, “This is why men in our line of work should be alone, Kazimir. Women make you soft.”

Before I can shoot him, he walks out the door and is gone.

On the desktop, my cell rings. The screen tells me it’s Sergey, a trusted member of my crew. I answer the call and wait for him to speak. When he does, his voice is tense.

“We have a situation.”

“Which is?”

“There’s a fire.” He pauses meaningfully. “At the warehouse.”

The warehouse I’m keeping Diego captive in, he means. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. I just got the call from the alarm company. I’m on my way now. Fire department’s already been dispatched.”

“Get there first and get him out. I want him alive, understood?”

“Da.”

“Call me when you’ve got him.”

Sergey murmurs an acknowledgement and disconnects, leaving me to ponder the thousand ways this could go wrong.

And if perhaps Malek was onto something when he said women make men like us soft.

The old me would’ve put a bullet in Diego’s head weeks ago.

The old me also wouldn’t feel a twinge of regret if one of his enemies died in a fire. The old me, the person I was before I met Natalie, would find the thought of Diego screaming in agony as he burned alive highly amusing.

The new me?

Not so much.

I mutter, “Fuck. Next thing you know, I’ll be running off to try to save Diego myself.”

I chuckle at that idea.

I pour myself more vodka.

Then I grab my keys and head to the warehouse, cursing this horrible new conscience I’ve grown since falling in love.