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Sy’s jaw started grinding again. There was disgust in his eyes when he looked down upon the men standing across from his brother.
“Fighting those fuckers is just the first part of Viking’s penance. It’s the blood for blood he will spill on your behalf because you slighted Vasili. The second part is for breaking off his engagement to Sokolov’s niece.”
Of course. By marrying her, Viking had effectively ended his engagement. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?
She almost didn’t dare ask. “What about the second part?”
“You ever heard of Russian Roulette?”
CHAPTER 17
VIKING
The vultures were waiting. Kristoff and Sokolov sat on lawn chairs to his right, sharing a drink and a cigar. Scattered around them were both Sokolov’s men and their own, all eager to watch the upcoming brawl. In the old days, they’d make him run the gauntlet for breaking a blood vow. He should be thankful he still had a chance to see another day.
The women weren’t there, but most likely were watching through the curtains. He could feel Annika’s vengeful eyes on his back. Word had gotten to him she had personally demanded retribution for the slight against her. He got that. She was a Russian mob princess after all, and had her pride. Apparently, she had even shed a tear or two. Her crocodile tears didn’t fool him. She was a blood-thirsty bitch whose pride he’d offended.
Still, to save her face, and Sokolov’s, Kristoff had come up with a solution: a brawl between the two Bratvas, with Vasili leading the Pakhan’s, against any three men of Viking’s choosing. Viking recognized it for what it was—a way to save face for both parties. Whatever Sokolov really thought of his breaking off the engagement was anyone’s guess. What Viking did know was that business was everything to him. The old man couldn’t care less about who his niece married, as long as it was someone he could use.
Sokolov was watching with intent, though his face gave nothing away. He raised his glass. “Nothing forges stronger bonds as when men bleed together.”
As if on cue, Vasili stepped forward, flanked by two of his men. If there was ever a trio that had been fed with meat and corn their entire life, it would be these three mean-looking Russians. They all had buzzcuts and looked like they ate kittens for breakfast.
It didn’t matter. He was bigger.
Baran appeared by his side, followed by Yuri.
“The pretty Kaplan prince,” Vasili said, a sneer in his tone. “Are you sure you can hold your own, boy? I wouldn’t want your big brother to look me up when I mess your face up, raki boy.”
The insult was clear. Like most people who knew Baran only by his feared family name, Vasili underestimated him.
Baran’s lips stretched into a wide grin. “I’m going to shove that bottle of vodka down your throat. Proving, once and for all, why raki is superior to your Russian choice of poison.”
Hands had been shaken, pleasantries had been exchanged. Time to get this show on the road.
Without further ado, Viking grabbed Vasili by the collar and head-butted him. He pushed away the pain radiating off his own skull. Seeing Vasili’s nose splinter and him going down, was worth everything.
After that, it was a free-for-all. Fists smashed into skulls, elbows were shoved into faces, bones were broken.
Viking spit out the blood filling his mouth as he shoved Vasili off of him. The bastard was surprisingly fast on his feet. All that vodka in his veins must have dulled the pain or something. Viking took another blow to his ribs and didn’t even hit back when he saw an opening.
Sokolov was a proud man. If his supposedly master crew got annihilated in front of him, it would make him look weak. The man might feel humiliated. A pissed-off Pakhan was bad for business. To his right, he saw Baran didn’t have the same notion. He had one of the meatheads in an arm-lock and was choking the shit out of him. He continued, right up until the red face of his adversary turned purple and the guy slumped onto the grass, passed out. That’s what you got for underestimating the Turk, insulting his heritage, and thinking bulk would always win over brain.
Yuri was having a field day as well. He was bleeding from an eyebrow but smiled as if he was enjoying the fight. Then again, Yuri’s life had been a struggle since the day he was born. Kristoff had taken the beat-up runaway kid in when he’d found him in a leaking boat. It was either that or turn him back in to foster care.
Viking ducked when Vasili tried to punch a hole in his face. He locked eyes with Yuri and looked down, then up, without giving their signal away. He knew it would be no use trying to get Baran to duck a fight. Once his engine got running, there was no stopping him. And there was no way in hell he was gonna lose to that prick, Vasili. Thinking of his hands pawing at Elena still made him see red. Yuri would take one for the team though.
As expected, Yuri made a rookie “mistake” and got a fist to his temple. He spiraled and went down. Viking would thank him later.
Vasili head-charged at his midriff, taking them both down.
He heard a bottle clank onto the table. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kristoff and Sokolov rise from their chairs.
“Let’s drink!”
And just like that, with Sokolov raising another glass, the fight was over.
Viking got up, didn’t bother to give Vasili a hand, and went for a shot glass Kristoff had just filled. Wiping the blood from his chin, he downed it. Then he took another one. The alcohol burned his split lip, but it was nothing compared to what awaited him.
