Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (my reading book .TXT) 📕

anymore. I won’t let them go after Tiana without making sure I’ve done everything I can. Maybe convincing Clown Shoes to kill me is part of some subconscious plan. It’s not, but it’s a nice fantasy to have.

But that doesn’t even matter, because all I know is that, now that I’ve started speaking my mind, I can’t stop.

“The truth is, you just like killing. And you don’t need a reason or an excuse unless the person you’re killing is stronger than you, more important.”

Clown Shoes chuckles. “Kostya Zinon and all his little Russian playmates aren’t more important or stronger.” He leans forward and folds his hands, letting them dangle between his spread knees. “I was IRA. That’s where Jack Whelan found me. He gave me a life, a purpose. Made me his right hand over his son even.” He smiles again. “His son is … progressive … forgets what we fight for.”

“And what is it that you fight for?”

“A better life for my family. A world where my children don’t have to worry, where they can know I will always protect them.” Maybe it’s subconscious or some maternal instinct, but I move my hand over my belly, and he smiles. “Like you protect your baby.” He stares at me and I stare back until I can’t take it anymore and I look away. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way. Jack doesn’t appreciate new life the way he used to. He doesn’t care. I do. And I’ve protected your baby in the hopes Zinon would negotiate, would care about your life, but he isn’t the man you think he is. He doesn’t care about you.”

“Because you made him think I betrayed him.”

“And if he was half the man you thought he was, half the man you believed you slept with, he would be here, breaking down doors and fighting for your life. But do you see him?” He pretends to look around the room. “Where is he now, this man you’re fighting to be with? Where is he?”

I force myself to stare this Mad Hatter in the face. “I don’t know. But when he finds you, you can ask him before he kills you.”

Even I know it’s a ridiculous notion. Kostya isn’t coming.

But damn, it feels good to fight back.

This time, he throws his head back when he laughs. I imagine myself clawing the Adam’s apple right out of his throat, jabbing my fingers into his eyes, breaking this chair over his head and stabbing him through his heart with one of the shards of splintered wood.

Then, I act before I can separate the fantasy from the reality of my situation.

My fingers curl around his neck and for just a second, I think I can win, I think I can kill him with the strength in my body, but that second passes into another and he jerks my hands away and spins me so my back is against his chest and he has one arm—one arm is all he needs—holding me tight as his phone shrills and he reaches into his pocket, as nonchalant as if this was an affectionate embrace.

“What?” The voice on the other end is loud, as if he’s in the room rather than on the phone. I don’t have to strain to hear what he’s saying.

“Zinon has Collin. And the cartel has stepped in to negotiate a trade. The woman for the boy.”

“Pfft. Let Zinon keep the boy.” So my captor doesn’t care about his boss’ son. Probably an internal struggle for power. Not that I’m shocked. That’s the way with men who value power over life. It’s a sickness. And all these men are afflicted.

“It’s out of our hands, Michael. Zinon blew up three drug shipments this morning and he grabbed Collin at the laboratory in San Diego.” The voice on the other end has no emotion. It’s as if he’s just a messenger and has no stake in what’s happening. The singsong melody of their brogue is missing from his voice. There’s no inflection whatsoever. “The cartel has arranged an exchange. Fifth Faith at seven.”

“The distribution center?” The Mad Hatter thinks this is a bad idea. I can tell from the incredulity in his voice. “It’s wide open. And you know he’s setting up right now, lying in wait like the snake in the grass he is.”

Kostya didn’t abandon me. He didn’t give up on me.

But the joy of that realization is tempered by the fact that I know he’s walking into an ambush. Because no matter how good his planning is, they know the area. It’s theirs. The building. The streets around it. The gangs doing their dirty business on the street level. This all belongs to the Irish who have probably already given the order to shoot Kostya on sight. Especially if the guy holding me is the one giving those orders.

The tiny spark of happiness at the realization that I am not yet done for is quickly extinguished. All I can think of is Kostya, riddled with bullet holes, choking his way to death’s doorstep. I can barely breathe, and my knees go weak at the same time my stomach clenches. I spew bile on the floor in front of me. The Mad Hatter drops me, and I crash to the floor.

Oh God. Kostya.

The only bright spot is that the Irish won’t be going after Tiana now.

They already have what they wanted all along.

22

Kostya

On my phone the video is smaller, but I’ve watched it more times than I can keep track of, inventoried the details, memorized the tone of her voice. Not because I need to hear her say the words, to make the accusations, but because I want to hear her voice.

If the bruise on her face didn’t say it, the way she spoke would have told me she didn’t say those words on her own. Jack Whelan is desperate, and taking Charlotte, forcing her to make a video, then sending the video to the media