Page 24

“Uhhh...” the guy under me says.

“Oh, right,” I chuckle, getting up.

He scrambles to his feet, scurrying from the room. “Don’t forget my coffee!” I call after him, sitting down in the chair again.

Groaning, I put my feet up on the table and close my eyes as I let my body relax. “He’s not going to get me coffee, is he?” I crack an eye open.

“No, Shepherd, he’s not.” My dad glares at me. “Want to explain why you’re covered in blood?”

Saint takes the chair closest to our dad. “We were in the middle of taking care of Dale when you called.”

Our father’s eyes flash with fury. “Dirty fucking pig.”

I snort at that. Flashbacks flood my mind from a few hours ago when I called out to him, telling the little piggy to run as I chased the fucker through the woods, hunting him like a wild animal before gutting him.

Dale was one of the highest executives in our company. While he wasn’t close with the family, he did hold a big position in the legit side of the business.

That was until we found out that Dale was feeding information to Rafe Rossi, the head of the Italian mafia.

Rafe is one slimy fuck. He has been wanting to dip his toes into more business ventures, and rather than build his own empire from the ground up, he’s been trying to weasel his way into ours, as well as other mafia families.

The man is playing a dangerous game, one my father doesn’t plan on losing.

“Dale’s dealt with now. The cleaners took care of it.”

Dad nods. “Good.”

“Not that I don’t enjoy seeing my dear old Pops, I do, really. Our family bonding moments are some of the highlights of my life. But when it interferes with my time with Bunny, that's when I start to get a little irritated.” I hold up my thumb and finger close together in front of my face to show a small amount of space between them.

My father hits me with an unimpressed look, but I just shrug, lowering my hand.

“That’s why I asked you to meet with me. I didn’t mean here. This is something that could be handled at home,” he chastises, getting to his feet. “But since you’re here now, I guess this is as good a time as any. You three are drawing attention. Too much attention. I don’t like it. I told you if you were going to keep doing what you were doing, you needed to be more discreet. And not let it bleed into your duties for the business. So, want to tell me why I’ve had to get other people to take care of a few business deals?” He glares at me, then Saint. By business deals, he means targets. People that we’ve been ordered to take out and dispose of. “And why are there unauthorised drop-offs being made to the cleaners? Bodies can’t be dropping like flies.”

I know I look hot as fuck in a suit, but this corporate life is boring as fuck. We’re too restless, too wild, to be forced to sit behind a desk.

That wasn’t a problem for our father. We were trained and raised to be killers. To hold a bigger purpose within the bratva on the less-than-legal side of things.

Our grandfather Ivan Volkov, is head of the Russian bratva. He sent his oldest son, Dmitry Volkov, dear old dad, to the states to expand and run the business here.

When we were teenagers, we were sent to Russia, where we were pretty much trained to be killing machines.

I don’t think Dad was prepared for just how good we’d be at it. Or how much we’d crave it.

He sure as hell wasn’t ready for the lengths we’d be willing to go to protect our obsession. Our Bunny. Our Cove.

I mean, to be fair, we were ready to take on the roles we were groomed for. We just didn’t know fate had other plans for us. Plans in the form of a feisty, naughty-minded woman with mousy brown hair and eyes that could pierce your soul.

“We’re sorry we’ve dropped the ball, but Rafe isn’t just targeting us. He’s targeting Cove,” Saint explains.

Our father’s brows furrow. “What would he want with her?” he questions. “I’ve looked into Cove. There’s nothing special about her.”

“Hey!” I frown. “There’s a lot of things special about her.”

My father gives me an unamused look.

“What?” I mutter. “It’s true. Back me up, Saint.”

“Not now, Shep,” he hisses, and if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.