Chapter 59 Viktor
Viktor's POV
An envelope lay on my desk, opened with its black wax seal broken; its contents had thrown me into a rage I hadn't experienced in, well, years.
On my desk sat an almost translucent piece of paper with just one sentence, "Dead men tell no tales."
Upon opening, a patch fell out that all of the men wore on their gear. The message was clear: my men had failed. Maria hadn't been kidnapped or killed, Aleksander still sat on his throne overseeing the Bratva in the Southern districts, and our blood feud against him still held strong.
How did this happen? We kidnapped Dimitri, using this as a means to get Aleksander away from the house. Leaving that bitch alone at the compound with a few guards. This should have been easy; I had all the details and recon done. Everything had been accurate.
Pacing my office, everything that I had learned, the patterns studied, the more men I hired, and much, much more that I couldn't bring myself to dive down that rabbit hole.
The more I thought about it, the more my blood pressure rose. The tumbler full of whiskey in my hand shook as my hand began to shake uncontrollably. It didn't shake so much with anger, but the fear that kept creeping in would make anyone shake. I thought that after all this time, using a bit of leverage and force would hurt him and bring his empire down with one swoop.
I was wrong.
Sitting down on the window seat that overlooked the Atlanta skyline, I tilted back my head, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. I needed to think about my next move, because if I didn't, I knew he would get me before I got him. This is the way of the Bratva.
Ping...Ping...Ping...
Looking down at my phone, several text messages began to light up my screen, coming one after another.
Two were from Alina, and the others were from my new head of security, Mark.
The ones from Alina were pictures sent from Nobu. She must not know yet what's going on. She looked so happy; it broke my heart to know that soon that smile would be off her face.
Reading what Mark sent me threw me for a loop, with my face paling so bad that I more than likely looked like a ghost.
"Boss, it's Mark. I just got some intel that you might want to know about. I heard from one of my informants in Russia, The Pakhan of Kapotyna, a.k.a Maxim Volkov, arrived in Atlanta yesterday late afternoon, sir."
Closing my eyes, I didn't want to continue reading this message. It's like all of my nightmares and enemies are coming out of the woodwork,
Taking a deep breath, I continue reading,
"Boss, it seems he was at the compound during the attack. From what I've heard, he's already made a few phone calls to some of the other council members for lack of other words.....he's pissed."
I scream, "AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW," so loud that I'm sure half of Atlanta must have heard me. How did something go from what should have been straightforward to a fucked up pile of horse shit? It just keeps getting worse and worse.
No one seemed to understand the damage Aleksander had caused not only to my daughter and me, but also to our business. We were supposed to run the South, especially Atlanta, where I had done the work all those years ago. Fighting rival factions so that the Bratva could move down from New York and Chicago to establish a strong hold in the Southern states.
Moving my fingers to imitate them like someone walking, then, out of nowhere, a boy from Moscow, whose father is a councilman, shows up.
He refused the match with my daughter, then said he wanted to make his own name, not his family name, to make something of himself.
At the time, I thought he was foolish, arrogant, and just pretty much stupid. But here we are, twenty-plus years later, and what should have been a calculated blow to him and his organization totally blew up in my face.
I have to think of what to do next. I need an idea. I need blood.
It's come to the point that I have nothing else to lose.
Manically laughing, I chug the rest of the whiskey, feeling it burn down my throat. Picking up the phone, I start to make a few phone calls of my own.
Alina's POV
Nobu is my favorite restaurant, and when they opened in Atlanta a few years ago, I was overwhelmed with excitement. Nobody could make toro tartare with caviar or black cod with miso like Nobu.
Saying goodbye to my friend Alicia, I get out my credit card and pay my portion of the bill. I had been in a good mood the past forty-eight hours, knowing that the bitch Maria was going to get what was coming for her.
Smiling just thinking about the inevitable outcome, I didn't notice the pinging on my phone at first.
Taking another sip of my Grand Cordon cocktail while waiting to sign the bill, I grab my phone from my purse to see why it kept pinging.
I had sent Daddy some pictures earlier of Alicia and me, as well as pictures of our food. Maybe it's him texting me back.
Seeing it was an unknown number, I assumed it was one of my men reporting to me that the mission was successful. Already in my mind, I was planning how to celebrate this occasion, but as soon as I opened the text, my throat went into my stomach.
"Mission Failed! Need further guidance. Suffered major losses."
What the absolute fuck? Trying to keep my composure in a room full of people, I literally chugged the rest of the cocktail in one go. The waiter brought back the check, not looking me in the face, as I'm sure my mood radiated off of me.
Signing the bill and giving it back to the waiter, leaving him a handful of twenties in cash as a tip, no one could ever accuse me of being cheap.
Grabbing my purse, I quickly exited the restaurant, going towards the valet.
Handing the valet my ticket, I kept swaying back and forth on my feet, unable to keep still. After a few minutes, the valet pulled up with my Mercedes G Truck. Climbing in, I set my purse in the passenger seat and drove away. Turning onto the interstate, I let the engine roar, pulling out a cigarette from the console, I light it with my hot pink lighter, and roll the windows down. I've been trying to quit, but today is not the day.
All the embarrassment over the years culminated in my breaking point. If they want to call me a woman scorned, then that's fine.
They'll find out why hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Knowing one place I had to go, I sped off toward Alpharetta, preparing myself for a long overdue conversation with another woman who I also knew was scorned by these same men.