Until the End (18 page)

Which would ultimately end in something bloody.

Only one other time had Mishca had the misfortune to come across the Albanians, an incident that was forever seared into his memory because of the consequences of that single day.

Just a single error, one that no one could have predicted, except for a select few individuals, had saved the Albanians from a war that would have ended in hundreds of deaths, with more than a few innocent bystanders.

To this day, the truce between the two families was shaky at best and events like this—even ones that Mishca couldn’t control—could tip the balance in the wrong direction.

The Besnik Family was one of the few Albanian crime families that were located in London as opposed to Albania itself. Mishca hadn’t had the misfortune of meeting everyone connected with them, but he had met the brothers once before.

Jetmir and Brahim Besnik.

Brahim was the youngest of the two and looked it with his boyish face that lacked any real facial hair, even though he was two years Mishca’s senior. Jetmir was the oldest, and by far, one of the most powerful men that Mishca knew.

It could be said that the older fellow had a natural born hatred for Mishca because he, like so many others, incorrectly assumed that Mishca was just given his position as
Bratva
Captain, a similar position as to what Jetmir held himself.

Another thing he hated was having to address Mishca as his equal when he was several years younger. In his territory, he would never have allowed such acts to transpire. In his eyes, Mishca was still just a boy.

The bell at the entrance sounded, in walking men Mishca hoped he would never see again. He recognized Jetmir and Brahim immediately, forever connected to them. For that reason, there could never truly be a truce, not when they were both constantly thinking of killing the other, and the last Mishca had heard, someone was picking the Albanians off one by one. No doubt that would be blamed on them as well…Mishca was more responsible for that than he cared to admit.

Mishca climbed to his feet as the men entered, forcing himself to remain unfazed by their appearance in his city. He wasn’t the same person he’d been four years ago, not even a little.

“Gentlemen, what brings you to New York?”

Despite their local branch, the Albanians rarely frequented Manhattan and because of a ‘misunderstanding’ they made it a point to announce their presence when they came to Mishca’s territory.

Mishca gave them a chance to sit, get comfortable, and even went so far as to pour drinks as they were cohorts instead of enemies.

“A spontaneous trip,” Jetmir responded with his thick accent. “It seems a mutual acquaintance of ours has come to the city.”

He looked at Mishca expectantly, but Mishca knew better than to respond to that. His best option was to play the part.

“I don’t speak in riddles,” Jetmir went on. “Naomi Le Feuvre is here and I want her.”

“For?”

“We have no business with you, Russian,” Jetmir said, a flash of annoyance sparking in his eyes at being questioned. “It is none of your concern.”

“You would not be here if it weren’t.”

Because of a rash decision years ago—one that he didn't truly understand the significance of until much later—Mishca was now in the middle of a fight he had nothing to do with. It was his responsibility to right the situation and only if they acted against the
Bratva
as a whole would Mikhail step in.

“Tell me, what has Naomi done?”

Jetmir snapped his fingers, one of his men producing a photograph, handing it to Mishca. It was of an orange diamond, fire diamonds he thought they were called.

“She stole it from me. I want it back or you can give her to me as collateral.”

“What makes you so sure she has it?”

Jetmir smiled, telling Mishca all he needed to know. Someone had died, painfully, giving up Naomi.

“If she has it, I will force her to hand it over to me and
I
will give it to you. Once I deliver it, you will not touch her, understood?”

He scoffed. “You think to order me, boy?”

Jetmir was too focused on Mishca to notice when Luka was lumbering to his feet, ready to dive across the table for the man’s throat. Jetmir was being purposefully disrespectful and Luka had grown tired of it.

Yet, when Mishca held his hand up, Luka stopped. Despite his predilection for rash anger, he wouldn’t strike out unless Mishca ordered it.

At least most of the time. Thankfully, this was one of them.

“Careful. We don’t want a repeat of the last time we crossed paths,” Mishca said darkly, smirking when he saw Jetmir’s hand fist, resisting the urge to touch the scar on his face. “I will call you in one week to set up the meeting. You’re dismissed.”

Surprising even to Mishca, Jetmir and his crew left without another word, though Mishca knew this wasn’t the end of it.

Luka sat back with a contented smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you ready?”

Sighing in agitation, Mishca gulped down the shot of Vodka in front of him, grabbing for Luka’s as well. “Ready for what?”

“You drew the line, Cap. Jetmir has no choice but to retaliate or he’ll lose face,” Luka said rubbing his hands together, a manic gleam entering his eyes despite his ominous words. “It’s about to get interesting.”

There were some neighborhoods most people feared to tread in, where there was a look-the-other-way policy in place. Because of this, no one paid much attention to the massive men sitting on the stoop in front of a rather rundown brownstone, and when the six-figure car pulled up along the curb, with a cursory glance, it was dismissed as well.

The men snapped to attention when Jetmir climbed out of the car, his reputation preceding him. No one paid much attention when the younger and smaller version of him followed. To the Albanians, power wasn’t granted to those who bore a famous last name, but to those that knew how to wield it.

Blood, both innocent and guilty, stained Jetmir’s hands, not that he gave a second thought to his victims. The guilty ones deserved their fate, and the innocents…wrong place, wrong time.

Brahim, on the other hand, had never killed a man in his twenty-eight years, though the opportunity had presented itself many times.

No one would ever say it to them—not if they wanted to live—but behind their backs, whispers of the brothers was common nature.

Jetmir was the tyrant and lived to make an example of anyone who thought to challenge him. A dozen or more men had lost their lives for the simplest of things.

Brahim was another story all together. As much as Jetmir was feared, Brahim was shunned. Most were careful never to speak their thoughts aloud, too afraid that their words would reach Jetmir’s ears.

What little Brahim had accomplished in his life of crime was belittled or overlooked because of Jetmir’s notoriety, and this only made Brahim want to prove himself more, with disastrous results most occasions.

Inside the brownstone, men were seated around a poker table, stacks of money and chips in the center. A few women walked around, their eyes glazed as they went from man to man. The place itself was little better than a hole in the wall.

Jetmir was disgusted. He was used to a certain way of life and this was not it, but it was only for a week, two tops and he would be back in his home in Albania.

Fucking Naomi.

He should have known she would run to the Russian when she was in trouble. During their time together, she often spoke dismissively of him, but Jetmir didn’t miss the look on her face…nor the way she proudly showed off the stars on her back.

But she would learn.

“Who’s in charge here?” Jetmir asked in a booming voice, the sound made even louder by the silence that permeated the air.

No one spoke, each looking at another as though they too didn’t know the answer to that question. Losing his patience, Jetmir brandished his gun.

“Thirty seconds or everyone dies.”

Immediately, they all pointed to a man hunched over in a corner, as though the position would help him disappear.

Jetmir didn’t tolerate men with no backbone.

“Tell me of your business,” Jetmir said pulling up a chair to face the man, resting his foot on his knee as he regarded him.

The soldier cleared his throat, trying to look in control as he talked to his commander. “I’m not able to do much,” he tried for the honest approach, “the Russians do not allow us near their territories.”

“Yes,” Jetmir agreed nodding along. “I can see why that would be troubling for you.”

He gave a relieved smile, that expression frozen on his face for all time as Jetmir plugged a bullet into his skull.

“You do not allow any Russian, Italian, or
anyone
else to control you. If you want it, you
take
it. Consequences be damned.
Më kuptoni?
—
Do you understand
?”

They nodded quickly, too afraid to do anything else, else they succumb to their once leader’s fate.

Jetmir dropped his gun onto the table, facing them all. “I’ve got a job for you.”

When Mishca heard the knock at his door, he was expecting to see Lauren come in, but when Naomi entered with a breezy hello, his good mood was shot to shite in a nanosecond.

He really didn’t have time for whatever she was trying to pull, especially not with Luka in the room with him. It wasn’t that he was going to do anything wrong, but Luka was an expert at making an uncomfortable situation worse.

After his meeting with the Albanians, he knew the real reason she was back in New York, and while she had been honest about her being there for him, he knew it was more about needing his protection.

When she reached for his face, he slapped her hand away, frowning. “What do you want, Naomi?”

Unfazed by his temper, she plopped down on his desk crossing her legs so the hem of her skirt drew up, revealing the tops of her silky thigh-highs. Luka was whistling the 1812 overture...like that was normal.

“I missed you.”

“Feeling isn’t mutual. Leave.”

“Oh, Mishca. Is that anyway to treat a lady?”

“Of course not, but you are no lady. Tell me, were you ever going to tell me you stole
Djegia Flaka
from the Albanians. They want your blood.”

“I did no such thing,” she replied airily. “They just assume it was me because I no longer wanted to live with that brute, Jetmir.” She pouted, touching his shoulder. “He used to beat me. I remember once you would have taught him a lesson.”

That much was true, but not any longer, not with all of the drama that came attached with Naomi. He was already risking too much for her, all because he felt an inkling of something. It was not love, it was hardly any like, but she had meant something to him once and he didn’t want to see her killed.

Not in the way the Albanians would do it.

“You,” Naomi said pointing back at his enforcer, “Luka, yes? Can you give us ten minutes alone.”

“
Nyet
. Speak your piece and leave.” He didn’t want to be alone with her for a moment, knowing what she would try to do.

“If you want him to stay, so be it.”

She shifted on top of his desk, spreading her legs, offering him a view  of what he was missing out on. She expected him to look, even if it was just a glance, just to prove that she still held some power over him.

When he didn’t, she sighed, but refused to give up. Withdrawing a plastic hotel key from her cleavage, she tucked into the front pocket of his shirt.

“If you want me,” she whispered next to his ear. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Seriously?”

Everyone in the room looked up at Lauren as she stood glaring at the two of them, anger quickly replacing the hurt in his expression. Without meaning to, Mishca jumped out of his chair, appearing far more guilty than he meant. He hadn’t thought to consider whether or not she even thought he was guilty of something in the first place.

Seeming satisfied, Naomi gingerly stood, making a show of fixing her skirt. “You know where I’ll be,” she said with a wave of her hand, blowing him a kiss.