Vadim’s face tightened, and his gaze skated away from Dmitry’s. The bastard was about to lie. It was the perfect time to take his life but something held Dmitry’s hand.
“Dmitry, there is time to right old wrongs. For tonight let’s look to the future. I need an underboss. I know you’ve been working with those Americans.” He spat the word as if the taste was foul.
Dmitry smiled. Vadim didn’t notice.
“I can forgive you working against my interests if you will but return to the fold.” He let a few moments pass before he finished with, “Your father would want that. And I’ve been fair in not pursuing you these last few years. I had to give you time to grieve. But the time to return to family is upon you.”
Dmitry was many things—patient, understanding, but in the face of Vadim’s lies and manipulations he was left with nothing but wrath. He understood what made Bone tick in that moment. What made all the women of First Team long for the death of the ones who’d created them.
Yes, he’d trained to kill. Yes, he’d dispensed his fair share of death. But somewhere in the midst of his father’s follies and the loss of his brother, sisters, and mother, Dmitry had become more than a simple desire for revenge.
It’s why the hatred caught him unaware. At that moment he was revenge. It beat at him, much as his lust for a killer earlier. The rhythm of that need pounded in his veins. He reached under his jacket before a man walked into the room toward Vadim. The way the big man walked, flowed in his space, reminded him of someone but Dmitry couldn’t place who. He wore the skin of a mafia enforcer but there was more under the mask of indifference and it put Dmitry on alert.
The man whispered in Vadim’s ear and Vadim’s gaze landed on Dmitry, before he veiled his eyes and nodded at his man.
“Dmitry, this is Azrael. He’s got something he wants to show us,” Vadim said softly.
Interesting. The man was named after the Angel of Death from the Koran. His senses sharpened, taking in the man’s hands, calloused with use on the edges—the hands of a fighter. Azrael held himself still and wary and it struck Dmitry who he reminded him of…Bone.
He took a slow, even breath and let it out. Time slowed infinitesimally. There were five men outside the closed door to the study. Each had three handguns but limited training in using them. Vadim was a *, and therefore no threat.
But Azrael, well he was a different story. Dmitry held onto his glass. He’d been stripped of his weapon when he walked in the door, but the glass was just as useful. He’d have to get closer to whoever needed killing but he would be fine.
“Come and watch with us, syn,” Vadim urged.
Son, he called him. The pounding at the base of his skull returned but Dmitry nodded and walked closer to the pair. Azrael turned on the large screen television hanging on the wall and there in high-definition display was Yesipov’s club earlier that night. Azrael then stepped back, head lowered, hands at his sides, waiting.
Dmitry glanced at Vadim. “What is this?”
Vadim shook his head and his mouth turned down. “It is the club earlier tonight. There you see,” he pointed at the screen, “there you are. And there! There is the woman who killed my brother! Did you not tell me you were in another part of the club and therefore didn’t see my son and nephew taken down?”
Vadim’s tone was slick, oily, and Dmitry readied himself. He judged Azrael’s stance, took the measure of the man and prepared. He’d take Vadim first. There would be no time to revel but the killing would be done and that’s why he’d returned to Russia.
For Vadim and for Bone.
Vadim’s gaze remained on the screen and from the corner of his eye Dmitry saw the entire scene play out. Vadim cursed and cried out and Dmitry made his move.
“You killed Boris!” Vadim yelled.
Dmitry was on him before the final word slid from his lips. He crashed the crystal against the other man’s skull, following him down to the ground and straddling him. He had just grabbed a shard of the glass when a pistol pressed against his temple.
“Let him up,” the man, Azrael, said in a voice so low Dmitry had to strain to hear him.
He spoke perfect English, with no accent and his voice carried the same tones First Team’s did. Death.
Dmitry considered going for the gun, but the man chuckled and cocked the pistol. “Do not do it, Asinimov. I know you enjoy a good fight, but tonight is not about you. Now get up and take a seat on the sofa, won’t you?”
Vadim groaned under Dmitry. It would be so easy, but what would taking Vadim’s life mean if Dmitry had to give his own in the process? Revenge would be sweet but the objective was to live to experience it.
The desire to kill thrashed inside him and there was Bone, drifting through his thoughts. No, Dmitry had more to live for than the death of Vadim Yesipov. He raised his hands slowly, letting the shard of glass slide down his sleeve until it finally fell to his waistband.