6. Chapter 6

6

Leonid

I shouldn’t be thinking about the captive woman and her kid so much.

I also shouldn’t be wondering who she’s been with or where the fuck the father of the kid is.

I should be focusing on the fact that Aleksei’s trying to marry me off like some Russian Jane Austen novel. Instead, I’m wondering if Clara’s managed to break any of Dmitry’s fingers yet.

Pizdets. That old man’s gotten way ahead of himself. Thinks he can run my life like Papa’s still alive, like I’m some teenager.

I make a left turn, leaving behind the fancy-ass restaurant district. The city around me is gray and worn, buildings leaning with age, the occasional flash of graffiti in the corners.

I push the gas; the road ahead stretches, cracked asphalt and faded yellow lines disappearing beneath the Brabus.

Traffic catches me at the next light.

Some asshole in a Prius is taking his sweet time, probably composing a tweet about saving the planet. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, glancing up. The sky’s hanging low, heavy clouds the color of wet cement. Noon and the sun can’t even be bothered to show up properly.

Typical October.

My hand reaches for the radio, needing something to drown out my thoughts of Red’s voice still echoing in my head.

Before I can hit the button, my phone buzzes on the seat next to me.

I snatch it up, one eye still on the road.

Maksim:

Watching Pikachu with the fam, boss. Kid says you look like Meowth. Mean and scratchy.

I snort, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. I shake my head.

Part of me is surprised Maksim managed to get them settled without having to tie Clara to the fucking couch. That woman’s more feral than any street fighter I’ve dealt with. And here she is, apparently watching cartoons like this is some normal Sunday afternoon.

Most people—most sane people—do one or two things when they get kidnapped: They fucking cry, beg, or shit themselves.

And then there’s Clara Caldwell and her kid Elijah.

Sitting in my TV room, enjoying whatever hell they’re watching.

Chyert , she’s way too confident. The Caldwell family is rotting six feet under, yet here she is, acting like she owns the place.

Makes no fucking sense.

The Irish have held New Orleans in their grip since before I was born—old money, old blood, old grudges. But they’re bleeding cash faster than a gunshot wound these days. Their empire’s crumbling like a cheap cookie, and here’s Clara, starting a war she can’t afford.

What’s her fucking angle?

Even with generations of mob ties behind her, what makes her think she can take on the Bratva alone?

Unless she’s not alone.

Suddenly, something flickers in my rearview. Black Audi, three cars back.

Could be nothing.

Could be s omething . It’s been hanging back for a while now, maybe two or three turns. I check the mirror again. It’s subtle, but I know when someone’s trying to stay out of sight.

Could be Ludis being a pain in my ass again. My twin’s got a habit of showing up when I least want him to.

I take a right turn, cutting off a minivan. The Audi follows.

Interesting.

My convoy’s back at the compound, which means either I’m getting paranoid or someone’s got balls the size of Russia. Nobody fucks with the Pakhan of the Kuznetsov Bratva. Nobody with a functioning survival instinct, anyway.

The light ahead turns yellow. I gun it, shooting through just as it hits red. The Audi runs it completely, earning a symphony of horns.

Definitely not Ludis. He’s an asshole, but he’s not sloppy. If Ludis wanted me tailed, I wouldn’t see it coming.

This is too obvious.

I catch a glimpse of the driver in my mirror. Single occupant, male. Nasty scar running from his left eye to his jaw like someone tried to fillet his face.

Who the fuck is this guy?

The traffic thins out. Perfect.

I downshift, the Brabus responding like it can read my mind. Time to see what our friend in the Audi is really after.

Two more rights, then a sharp left. The Audi stays with me, getting closer now. Amateur. You don’t get closer unless you’re ready to make your move.

My phone buzzes again.

Maksim:

Now watching ‘Cars.’ Kid says you’d be the angry red one.

I smile. At least someone’s having fun.

The Audi’s right on my ass now. Through the mirror, I can see Scarface gripping his steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it.

Enough playing around.

I slam on the brakes. The Audi swerves, nearly kissing a streetlight. I floor it, watching him scramble to catch up.

Suka , this is actually kind of fun.

We dance through the streets, my Brabus against his Audi. He’s good, but not good enough. Not Bratva good.

So, who the fuck is he?

Everyone knows that trying to clip my wings is a death sentence.

I glance in the rearview, catching a better look. His face is twisted with frustration, jaw clenched, white knuckles gripping the wheel. Desperation, maybe. But who the hell is desperate enough to follow me alone?

Unless…

Unless they don’t know who they’re dealing with.

Now that’s an interesting thought.

I check my mirror again. Scarface is sweating now, his face twisted in concentration.

Time to end this.

I take a hard left onto Canal Street, then immediately cut right into an alley. The Brabus barely fits, but that’s the point. The Audi’s wider, heavier.

The sound of scraping metal tells me I was right.

I burst out onto the next street, leaving Scarface wedged in the alley like a fat cat in a drainpipe.

Pulling into a spot behind the dollar store, I grab my phone.

Me:

Got a rat trapped on Canal and Bourbon. Send cleanup crew.

Maksim replies instantly:

On it, boss.

Blyat .

I check my Glock, sliding it back into its holster. The street’s mostly empty—just a couple of tourists too drunk to notice it’s barely noon. Perfect.

Adjusting my sunglasses, I step out into the weak October sun. My shoes crunch on broken glass as I approach the alley. The Audi’s wedged tight, black paint scraped raw against both walls. But Scarface? He’s just sitting there, hands on the wheel at ten and two, like he’s waiting for a fucking driving test.

Something’s off.

Most people panic when they’re caught.

This suka ? He’s just sitting there, staring at me through the windshield. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reclines his seat all the way back.

What the fuck?

In one fluid motion, he kicks up both legs, smashing through the windshield. Glass rains down as he pulls himself through the opening like some spider crawling out of its hole. Not a single wasted movement. Not a sound of pain.

Yobany urod . Either this guy’s professional or completely unhinged. Maybe both.

He stands, brushing glass from his jacket like he’s dusting off after a pleasant stroll. Blood trickles down his hands, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

I rest my hand on my Glock. “Hands where I can see them.”

He raises them slowly, and that’s when I notice the Celtic cross tattooed on his right palm. Irish work, old school.

The scar on his face isn’t just a scar—it’s a statement. Raw, twisted flesh cutting from eye to jaw like someone carved a road map of hell into his skin. But it’s his eyes that make my skin crawl. Gray as nuclear winter, empty as a killing field. The kind of eyes you see in old photos of war criminals—men who stopped being human long ago.

I’ve seen men like this before.

The ones who’ve crossed so far over the edge, they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be human.

He takes a step forward. Blyat , that right leg—it drags behind him like dead weight, hip jerking sideways with each move. The kind of fucked-up walk you only get when a hollow point tears through bone, and they can’t put you back together right.

My Glock’s steady at his chest, but this suka doesn’t even look at it. Just keeps coming, blood dripping from his sliced-up hands, marking his path on the asphalt like some twisted breadcrumb trail.

“Where’s she?” Another broken step. “Where’s Clara?”