Chapter 1 - Fedya
Fedya’s intention atThe Grottowasn’t to kill, per se. Sure, it sounded appealing to him to take an Irish life. Satisfying even. After the last stunt they pulled, showing their open support for Aleksander by kidnapping both his sister and his sister-in-law, Fedya was certain he’d enjoy watching the life seeping out of an Irish mafioso.
He’d smile, even?be pleased as the light left the whites of their eyes, and their bodies went limp in his arms.
No, he wasn’t a psychopath, even though some thought he was. Fedya simply believed in the law of “give and take”. He believed in balance, in the importance of having a fair outcome no matter the situation. And the Irish?they’d crossed the line when they touched his family.
His brothers and cousins had taken care of the situation by eliminating all the men who were involved. And even though the rest of the Irish had publicly denied any affiliations to those men, claiming they were a rebellious sect that had acted out on their own volition to support Aleksander, even though they’d sworn they were at peace with the Nikolais, even though they became public enemy number one the moment the kidnapping happened, Fedya still didn’t think it wasenoughto let them be.
He didn’t believe in mercy either. He thought it was a weak excuse people gave to willingly subject themselves to another round of shit. Whether or not human beings admitted it, a part of them loved torture, pain, but Fedya didn’t have time to wonder why.
He wasn’t going to let anyone?the rest of the Irish, to be specific? even think of crossing his family, let alone make attempts to be a nuisance.
It’s why he’d been dedicating his spare time to researching them, finding loopholes, and plotting several scenarios to finally get rid of them once and for all, thereby easing not only his workflow but also those of his brothers.
It was his one-man mission, though he’d made use of a few men without Mikhail’s knowledge and sent them out to spy on the Irish, hoping to get more intel on the intricacies of their operations. As small and tight-knit as the Irish mob was, they sure knew how to hide their footsteps. They were like mist?always fading away just when you thought you saw them, leaving no trails behind.
The most he’d gotten since he began was information on the new secret location where they’d resorted to having their meetings.
The Grotto?a dingy, underground bar hidden beneath a nondescript building in a seedy part of the city. From inside Fedya’s car, The Grotto looked nothing more than a forgotten relic of the ugliest part of the city’s underbelly. Graffiti smeared the cracked brick on the building above it, and a rusted fire escape clung to its side like it was seconds away from falling off.
There was a single streetlight flickering a weak glow over the narrow alleyway, illuminating a dented mental door beneath a faded awning. If it weren’t for the pair of men loitering outside and dragging lungfuls of smoke into their systems, Fedya would have assumed the building was devoid of life.
But Fedya knew better. He knew those men had been placed there strategically. He watched as their eyes moved occasionally, scanning and watching, despite their lazy postures. They were Irish, just like the men he was going to meet inside, and the sight of them made Fedya’s lip curl in disgust.
He flicked down the vanity mirror and took one last good look at himself?at what he was going to be down there, because right now he barely looked like Fedya Nikolai. If anything, Fedya was confident in his abilities to blend into the background wherever he was. Of all his brothers, he was the calmest, the quietest, the one who was rarely seen. He was certain most people barely even knew what he looked like, and as much as he wanted to flaunt that advantage with the Irish, he wanted this to go as smoothly and perfectly as possible.
Knowing they were a probable target, the Irish were always careful, always watching, always maintaining their lane. Fedya didn’t want any loose ends. He needed to blend seamlessly into this world he was about to infiltrate, and that’s why he looked like this?a bald man with a beard and sideburn extensions that added a much more rugged look to him. He could thank the bald cap and fake hair for that.
He was wearing minimal makeup as well?majorly contour that darkened his pale skin a shade. Fake scars on his neck and chewing gum that altered his jawline subtly. He’d also switched his natural eye color?a cerulean blue?for brown. He also switched up his Russian accent, taking up an American one.
Satisfied, he killed the ignition of his car and stepped out just as a car hissed past him on the rain-slick road. Fedya could smell everything his nostrils could allow?stale beer, damp asphalt, the distant tang of weed smoke coming from the men who were following him with their eyes now.
They barely acknowledged him, but their gazes were lasers searing through his clothes as he flipped his trunk open and lifted his package. It was heavy guns, usually were, especially a small collection of them. He had managed to link up with one of the Irishmen as an independent arms dealer from out of town, and he was given an invitation to the bar.
Fedya was going in as Jonathan Riley?a dealer with high-end weapons devoid of serials, the kind that couldn’t be traced or identified?perfect for the Irish mob’s black-market operations. He strode towards the metal door, where a small red light glowed above a rusty security camera.
A buzzer echoed after he knocked, and there was a long pause before the door groaned open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit stairwell that spiraled downward. It looked like a road to hell, but Fedya had been to hell too many times to count.
Careful not to touch anything, Fedya began his descent. The scent changed here. It was darker, muskier, aged wood, whiskey, and sweat. The walls were lined with old wallpaper that peeled into curls at the top, a sheet of visible grime on the surface. The deeper he went, the louder the bass thumps from below came, reverberating through the walls in sync with the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat.
At the bottom of the stairs, another door awaited him, this one heavier, reinforced with steel plating. He knocked again, and just like the first time, there was another pause. Shorter than the first. Then it creaked open, revealing the heart of The Grotto?a cavernous, low-ceilinged room flooded in the golden light of dim sconces and hanging, shaky bulbs. The bar stretched along the back wall, clean but scarred by God knows how many years of use.
Rows of whiskey bottles ahead reflected the amber light, and thick cigarette smoke curled in the air, the most prominent of smells. A cacophony of occasional bursts of boisterous laughter, deep murmurs of Irish voices, and sharp, gritty music filled the air.
The Irish were here, drinking, dealing, entertaining strippers, and watching.
And now, they were watching him.
Fedya?Jonathan?walked into the smoky warmth of the bar, carefully memorizing every nook and cranny of the place without being obvious. He was hyperaware of the risk he had taken to come here, knowing fully well how reluctant the Irish were when it came to dealing with strangers. He needed to do everything possible to convince them he was an ally if he wanted to walk out alive. He could take them, but realistically speaking, it was one man against a mob. Fedya might have been a skilled gunman, but he was no superhero. He was the one at a disadvantage here.
He could feel their wary eyes tracking his every move, making it abundantly clear that he wasn’t welcome here. From the corner of his eyes, he could see them reaching for their guns beneath the table, grazing their fingers over the triggers, flicking the safety off.
Yet, no one stood.
Fedya continued confidently as he neared a round table near the back, where Liam Callahan, his supposed inroad with the Irish, sat, squeezing a stripper’s tit. His eyes met Fedya’s, and he raised a glass of whiskey in acknowledgement, his lips curling slightly as his eyes dragged over Fedya’s appearance.
Fedya approached, noting the way Liam leaned back, easy but alert, the hand that wasn’t groping the blonde stripper rimming his glass of rum and ice. He took notice of the men that flanked the table as Fedya approached, their muscles straining against the suits, watching like wolves assessing a trespasser in their den.
