Paying The Bratva’s Debt by Cole, Jagger (best classic books to read .txt) 📕

roll my eyes and turn to glare at my father. He’s not even looking though. “Glad to see we’ve evolved past arranged marriages for political means,” I grumble.

“I mean, does it actually surprise you? How many guys has your dad tried to set you up with because of their family’s money or political connections?”

“More than I want to count.”

She sighs. “So, you’re going to tell him today?”

“That’s the plan.’

“Well, I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks, Zoey.”

The plan is to finally tell my father I’m leaving my gilded cage. I mean I’m twenty-two, I have a law degree, and it’s ridiculous that I’m still living under his roof as basically a captive doll. So, I’m leaving. Even if it means getting cut off completely, I have to get out.

And today, I’m telling him that. No more suitors pushed on me. No more being a pawn for his political career. I want my life, and I want it now.

I arch as my father shakes some hands. Wilson, his chief of staff, comes up and whispers something in his ear. My father frowns and nods quickly, then he turns and makes a beeline for his office down the hall.

“Where’s he off to?”

“Oh, probably has Satan on the phone, offering my first-born child in exchange for a State Senate seat.”

Zoey snickers. “Well, no one’s allowed in his office, right?”

“True.”

“So, wouldn’t now be an opportune time?”

I bite my lip. She’s right. He’ll be alone and cornered. If I’m going to do this, it might as well be now. I turn and pass her my glass.

“I’ll be back.”

“Be brave!”

“Thanks.”

I slink away through the crowd. No one tries to congratulate me or stop me, not without my father watching. And that’s fine with me. I slip down the hall until I’m right outside his office door. I go to open it, but suddenly I hear voices arguing inside.

“Look, I already told you,” my father is saying sharply. “I can get you money now, or if you want to wait until after the election, whatever contracts you want are—”

“I am not interested in gambling on your political aspirations, Thomas.”

I freeze. The other man’s voice is dark and gritty, with some sort of Russian or other Balkan accent.

My dad laughs nervously. “Gambling? Please. This is a sure thing. And trust me, once I’m in, those contracts are going to be so sweet, you’ll get cavities—”

“I already told you, I am not interested,” the man with the smokey, dark, powerful voice sighs heavily. “We had an arrangement, Thomas.”

“I know, I know, and I’m trying—”

“I did you a favor.”

“I know that! And I’m so appreciative, I just—”

“A debt is owed,” the voice snarls quietly. “And today, I am here to collect.”

“Look, I’m trying, okay?! If you just give me a month, Mr. Komarov.”

I freeze, dread filling me. The behind-door crooked dealings with my father, the Russian accent, and now, a name I’ve seen in newspapers. The man my father is speaking to is the single most dangerous, violent, and notorious man in organized crime in Chicago. Perhaps even the whole country.

He’s talking to Viktor Komarov, the vicious, powerful head of the Kashenko Bratva.

“I’m not interested in giving you a goddamn thing, Thomas,” the Russian mobster hisses. “Except a further three seconds to tell me how I’m going to get my money, today. One.”

“Mr. Komarov, please! This is not how things are done—”

“Do not lecture me, Thomas. We had an arrangement. That is how things are done. Two.”

“Mr. Komarov!”

I hear the sudden metallic click of a gun on the other side of the door. I gasp loudly.

Too loudly.

The barking sound of a snarled command in Russian echoes through the door. Footsteps cross the room, and I gasp as I pull away from the door. But it’s too late. The office door yanks open, and two burly, terrifying men suddenly grab me. I scream, and my father is yelling, but they ignore us both. They yank me inside and throw me to the ground. The two of them storm over to me, when suddenly, there’s a barked command.

“Ostanovka!”

The deep, gravelly voice booms through the room.

I feel my heart pounding in my throat as I slowly look up. The two burly men move aside, and suddenly, I’m looking at a tall, broad-shouldered, completely gorgeous tank of a man. He’s even taller and bigger than his two bodyguards, and you can almost see the power rippling off of him. His deep blue eyes look right at me, captivating my gaze.

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Komarov,” my father fumbles, almost tripping over himself as he stutters over. “This is Fiona, my daughter.”

The brooding Russian’s eyes glimmer. They narrow at me as a shadow of a smile curls at his lips.

“Thomas,” he growls. “Our debt is settled.”

2 Viktor

I smile thinly up at the gilded townhouse. Being the District Attorney for Chicago pays well, though I’m quite sure it does not pay this well. But I know all about the other business of the man who lives here. I know of his backroom handshakes, and sweetheart contracts. I know he fancies himself a Kennedy.

My smile fades. If Thomas Murray doesn’t play his cards right in about five minutes, he’ll have a lot more in common with JFK than he’d like—such as an extra hole in his head he didn’t have this morning.

I turn to Lev and scowl. “Give him one last chance.”

“Da, Viktor.” Lev pulls a cellphone out of his suit jacket and hits a button. I look back up at the front of the Murray townhouse and smile thinly once again.

Years ago, I may have envied this man with his wealth and this opulent home. It may have sparked a hunger in me—a drive to conquer and build my own empire. But I’ve done those things now. I’ve reached the top. Now, when I look at Thomas Murray’s twelve-million-dollar Chicago townhouse, I just smile. I smile because now, my house is bigger than this. My wealth is vaster than his. And my power is even greater than