Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings — Volume 04 by Lytton (best life changing books TXT) 📕

gut, headbutt him so hard he almost flies off his feet, and then let the buckshot go.

He crumples like a deflating balloon.

The last Italian behind the bar raises his pistol to my head. A second later and I’d be dead, just another Bratva boss lost to history, but then Fyodor steps out and cleaves the top of his skull with a well-placed bullet.

I nod shortly in acknowledgment. It’s not the first time my lieutenant has saved my life.

He bows slightly, looking more like a Russian aristocrat than a mobster—all suave, inscrutable smile.

“Give me that.” I nod to his rifle.

He takes the strap from his shoulder and tosses it to me.

I spin as I catch it, peer over the bar, and then shoot the machine gunner right between the eyes. He lands on his weapon, mouth split open, the lights rapidly leaving his eyes.

And just like that, the hellfire ceases.

We leave Genovesi’s like a funeral pyre in our rearview mirror, the flames blazing into the night sky, and head out to Red Ruble.

“I don’t need a doctor,” Oleg says, pressing a towel against his shoulder. “Just a vodka or five, and a willing woman to warm my sheets.”

“You’ll have both,” I tell him. “You did well. You all did. The Italians are done in this city. Perhaps a few cousins remain, but if they rear their pathetic heads, we will take them as war trophies. This city belongs to the Ivanonich Bratva. Never forget that.”

The men nod seriously, though I feel Damir’s eyes on me, as they often have been these past months. He doesn’t look as pleased as he ought to be.

We head around the back and into the private function room, the walls displaying my Serovs, Repins, and more, all the finest in Russian art. Some of them are originals. The room is already full of women in bikinis carrying golden trays of vodka and champagne. Their fake tits are also the artwork of masters, and nonetheless pleasing to look at.

Anatoly is waiting for me on the raised platform where the senior men sit, though lately Fyodor has taken to sitting down in the pits as though he is one of the soldiers.

“He is trying to win the favor of the men,” I mutter quietly.

Anatoly is a gray-haired man with a scar running down the left side of his face. “I cannot disagree,” he says. “But you mustn’t let him see how it makes you feel.”

“Feel?” I laugh gruffly. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Good.” Anatoly nods. “So drink. Today is a good day.”

We click our glasses together and take shots of vodka. It sears down my throat, settling warmly in my belly.

Hour by hour, the night wears on.

Some of the men retire to the rooms above the restaurant with girls from the harem. Others pour back vodka until they end up slumped in their chairs.

And some get so drunk they forget who their leader is.

“Now we can join with the Aryan Pact,” Damir says loudly, slamming his hand on the table. “Like we should have done before we killed the Italians.”

The only sign of anger I show is the pulsing of my temples. Damir knows how I feel about those white supremacist worms.

“With their trucking connections,” he goes on, “we’ll be able to start shipping weapons across state lines, under the radar. It’s a win-win.”

“Damir,” I call across to him. “Your efforts would be better spent finding a woman for the night. Preferably one who will help you forget how to speak.”

He glares at me. I almost leap across the room and smack him in the mouth for his insolence. Oleg is looking at him sideways, as though wondering what on earth he’s thinking. It’s a sentiment I relate to.

“I could make the call right now,” he says, ignoring me. “Five minutes, it would take. A new arrangement that would make us all rich.”

“You are richer than you have any right to be,” I say calmly. “Be happy with what the Bratva provides.”

“A man can always get richer.”

“A man can forget his place, too, it seems.” I put my hands on the edge of the table. “Are you sure you want to have this conversation, Damir?”

He glances around the room, down at his feet, and then pushes his glasses up his nose as though the vodka has infused him with courage. “Fyodor would not hesitate because it makes him queasy,” he sneers. “Fyodor would—”

“Enough,” I say flatly.

“Enough,” Damir echoes like a schoolboy, shaking his head. “Yes, I believe I have had enough.” He rises to his feet, grabs his bottle, and swaggers drunkenly from the room.

I make to follow him, fire raging through my veins at the disrespect. Anatoly places his hand on my arm. “Erik,” he says quietly. “You will only widen the gap between those who support who and those who …”

He does not need to say it: those who support Fyodor. That gap has been causing me sleepless nights of late. A widening rift, with dire consequences if I let it worsen.

Yet, Fyodor is still my second, and has shown no signs of disloyalty. I am still very much the boss of this Bratva. Time to assert my authority.

“Fyodor,” I growl.

He glances up from the woman he has been talking with. He did not look up during the exchange, even when his name was mentioned, though I’ve no doubt he caught every word.

“Damir needs a lesson in discipline. Make it clear that he will not mention the Aryan Pact again.”

Fyodor rises to his feet swiftly, but still with that inscrutable smile on his face. He inclines his head. “Of course.” He nods at the woman. “If you’ll excuse me.”

I watch as he disappears after Damir. “If that happens again,” I murmur to Anatoly, “there will be blood.”

“It is only right,” he agrees. “But give the drunken fool a chance. An execution is no small thing.”

“Neither is a soldier who thinks himself a general.”

Anatoly is about to say something else when Alena climbs up