3

Zakh

The man cried out as Desmier held him back. Blood, sweat, and tears coated the spy's shirt. They mixed and merged as he sobbed and begged for mercy.

Mercy? That wasn't in the cards for him. If anyone thought they could spy on the Antonov territory and get away with it, they had another thing coming.

"Please, I wasn't here to look around," the idiot insisted through his tears. Losing two of his fingers had to hurt, but I kept my knife poised and ready to remove a lot more. Whatever it took to get him talking. I refused to go easy on this spy.

The Rossini Family were always looking for ways to get to us, but they would learn their lesson one way or another. No one messed with the Antonov Bratva.

"Zakh." My cousin's mocking tone slurred as he entered the warehouse. As soon as Desmier and I captured this Rossini spy lurking outside—taking fucking pictures through the windows—we called Akim and let him know what we were up to with this development. Akim was my superior in theory only. If my cousin actually gave a shit and acted like the heir to the Bratva, I would have held a semblance of respect for him. But he didn't care. He could barely walk into this windowless room of the basement, used strictly for dealing with enemies and fools. Calling Akim here was nothing more than a polite gesture. His arrival wouldn't change anything. I couldn't remember the last time my cousin had cared about hearing intel from a spy.

He tsked, approaching me and Desmier. Desmier glanced at me, a wary, skeptical lift of his brows as he, too, wondered why Akim had bothered. Most times, he ignored business matters and let everything go to voicemails. Maybe he'd get off his lazy ass and reply with a vague text.

I kept my blade ready even though I almost got the sense that Akim would, for once, involve himself here. My cousin disliked ever getting his hands dirty. He couldn't possibly want to handle the torture personally.

"What's the meaning of this?" he asked, frowning at the spy we'd captured, then glancing at his watch.

What? What the fuck? "I called and informed you of the spy trying to get a way into our warehouse." Just how fucking drunk are you if you can't remember a call from ten minutes ago?

"A spy?" Akim smirked, walking in a slow circle around us.

Desmier didn't release the Italian. If anything, my brother held the spy tighter with the bloody rope tugging his neck tight. I remained tense, holding my blade and waiting for my cousin to leave. Treating him like he was in charge was a joke. His father, the bratva's Pakhan, was no better.

"He's not a spy," Akim said dismissively, almost bored.

"He was outside trying to take pictures of our product," Desmier argued evenly.

"No, I wasn't. It's a misunderstanding," the Italian rushed to add. "Just an accident."

"Bullshit," I spat, stepping closer with my knife. My shoes crunched over his phone. I'd already shattered the device on the concrete floor.

"Ah, just let him go. We don't need to bother with this." Akim waved at the door, but Desmier didn't let the man go. I didn't back up either. "He's not worth your time."

"We can't let him go. He was spying." I narrowed my eyes at my cousin, wondering how he could be so deluded. If we let this man go, he'd tell his Mafia brothers about how lax the bratva had become.

"He didn't see anything." Akim shrugged. "It's not like the Rossinis are a threat anymore."

"They are all threats," I argued.

"Not the Rossinis," Akim retorted. "They're nothing now, not after losing so many with all their infighting."

It didn't matter if the Rossinis were strong or weak. They were our rivals, and we couldn't go easy on them.

"This is what you pulled me away from the whores for?" Akim scoffed, shaking his head. "Just let him go. Give him a warning if you want." He shrugged. "I don't care. I just want to get back to the pussies waiting for me in my bed."

His priorities were shit. Akim—and his father—cared more about drinking and fucking the whores. But letting this Italian go with a goddamn warning was asking for trouble.

"It's foolhardy to release him," Desmier warned in a firm tone. Not many messed with my brother when he spoke like that, but Akim was oblivious, smirking at him.

"We can't be this sloppy," I argued.

Akim shook his head. "It's not being sloppy. It's letting stupid shit that doesn't matter go."

I failed to see how he saw a spy as stupid shit that should be ignored. I'd never held Akim or Mikhail in high esteem, but they were the head of the family. Their word was law. More and more, though, I wondered if they'd bring the whole bratva to ruin with their lousy leadership.

"This isn't something to just let go," Desmier protested. "Too many spies are waiting to sneak in. Our rivals will take advantage of any information they can get about our business."

He laughed it off. Each chuckle grated on my nerves.

"Take advantage of us? The Antonov Bratva is too powerful," Akim bragged.

"Was. We were powerful," I replied hotly. Ever since my father died in a turf war, the bratva had been declining in influence. I always thought my father did the Pakhan's work for him, and with his death, the leadership crumbled.

"We still are. We're the most powerful crime organization in New York," Akim drawled, like I was the idiot here.

"No." I shook my head. "Not anymore. It seems like the Ortez Cartel reigns."

"We're not declining," Akim said, not touching on my comment about the cartel. I doubted he could lie about their influence. "And once we align with the Aslanov Family, all will be well."