Until the End (17 page)

“Naomi.”

She wiggled her fingers at him and without a word, closed the distance between them and proceeded to stick her tongue down her throat. Mishca didn’t react at first, but a heartbeat later, firmly set her away from him.

“
Ne nachinayte eto der’mo
—Don’t start this shit.”

At least he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. She couldn’t believe the nerve of this girl.

“Could you excuse us,” Mishca asked looking directly at Lauren.

A little hurt, no, a
lot
hurt, she asked, “You want me to leave?”

He shook his head, frowning at her. “Of course not, Naomi is leaving,
now.”

It had been ages since Mishca had last seen Naomi Le Feuvre, but even that time seemed too short. Once, he had gladly welcomed her as a distraction from his father’s betrayal so long ago, but after she had walked out on him, he had grew to understand that she was a toxic addition to his already unhealthy lifestyle. He would be damned if she came in now trying to destroy what he had built.

“What do you want, Naomi?”

She trailed her nails down the center of his chest, digging in slightly with a serene smile. “I came for you. Come now, Mishca. Haven’t you missed me at all?”

“No.” That wiped the smile off her face.

“That wouldn’t be because of that naïve little twat that’s playing house, would it?” She didn’t wait for an answer, reading his expression. “She
is
. You can’t possibly feel something for her.”

“Doesn’t matter, she doesn’t concern you. Walk away, Naomi, before I forget that you crossed me.”

“It’s not over between us,” she murmured in a silky voice, pressing her breasts against his chest. She grabbed his hands, forcing them around her until they were pressed against her lower back. “Or have you forgotten that?”

“I tend not to forget my mistakes lest I repeat them.”

“Can she really give you everything you need, Mishca…or do you restrain yourself with her? How long will it be before you accidentally show her the beast resting inside you?”

Mishca ground his teeth, ready to shove her away when the door at his back gave way. He cursed beneath his breath, dropping his hands and turning to face Lauren.

There was accusation in her eyes. “Mish—”

“
Mish
? He actually lets you call him that? The Mishca I remember hated pet names.”

He readied to respond to her barbed comment, but Lauren beat him to it.

“People change.”

Whether she was just tired of the game, or leaving it for another day, Naomi turned away.

“I’ll see you soon, Mishca.”

When she was out of sight, Mishca immediately turned to Lauren. “I can explain.”

“Please do.”

“First, never let her in this apartment again.”

“Oh, I didn’t let her in,” she said when they were back inside his bedroom. “She has a key.”

Fuck. He needed to get the locks changed immediately.

“I’m assuming you two had to be close for her to have a key.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardness filling him. “We lived together at one point, but it wasn’t like what we have. I believe we were both only in it for the sex.”

And for what Mishca could do for her, but he hadn’t known that at the time.

“How long ago was this?”

“From the time I was eighteen until I was twenty-one.”

“That’s a long time to just be friends with benefits, don’t you think?”

He shrugged, a bit ashamed of his past. “It was what I was into at the time.” Mishca just noticed that she was now wearing her jacket. “Are you leaving?”

“I’ve got school tomorrow, Mish. Can’t miss another day of class.”

“D’you mind if I stay the night with you?”

“Of course not, but you don’t have to. I’m not freaking out or anything about Naomi.”

But he didn’t believe that. Grabbing his keys, he followed her out of his apartment, taking his car back to her place. Lauren was surprisingly silent on the drive over, making him worry more about what she was thinking.

Inside her apartment, he stripped down, climbing into her bed as she did the same. She kept her back to him, not that he let that deter him.

He pulled her towards him, relaxing when she settled against him with a contented sigh.

“There’s nothing for you to worry about,” he promised. “She’s in my past.”

“I know.”

Later, as he was dozing off, he wondered why Naomi had come back, knowing she didn’t care enough about him for this to be about their relationship, or lack there-of.

Now she wasn’t above petty jealousy. He could see it all over her face when he walked, and she would do everything in her power to screw with Lauren’s head because of it.

He would have to find out why she was here and soon. The faster he got this done, the faster he could force her to leave, holding the one thing over her head that he had as leverage.

Mishca rubbed his eyes tiredly as he came awake, his phone’s insistent buzzing already grating on his nerves. He accepted the call without checking the caller ID, waiting until Lauren settled in his arms before placing the Blackberry to his ear.

“Yea?”

“The Albanians are in town.”

His hand tightened on Lauren’s hip and the constant headache he had hoped to quell came back with a vengeance.

While the Irish—Declan in particular—were a nuisance, the Albanians was a different kind of problem, one that stemmed back years.

“The
Pakhan
?”

Vlad grunted. “From what I head, they are here for you.”

“Where?”

“The Den.”

“Give me twenty minutes.”

Hanging up, Mishca slipped out of bed, hunting the floor for his pants, jerking them on.

“Work?”

Lauren was on her side, hugging the pillow he had just abandoned. He wished he could stay here with her, forgetting about Naomi and now the Albanians’ sudden arrival in New York. He had a sudden suspicion that the two were connected somehow, but he couldn’t figure out why.

“Yes, but I won’t be gone long.”

He leaned down, kissing her forehead, seeing the smile light up her face.

“Hurry back.”

First, a pit stop by his apartment to change clothes and get himself together, then Mishca was off to Brighton Beach where he would have the meeting with a few of the members.

The Den was one of many Russian cuisine restaurants in Brighton Beach, though not located near the pier, but despite its owner’s shady dealings, it was a place free of any criminal activity except for the occasional business meeting.

Mikhail had owned the restaurants for two decades and poured his earnings into it, making it a quality destination. The walls were made of white stone, mosaic tiles lining the floor, with warm champagne colored chandeliers. There was a stage towards the back of the eating area where performers sung in their native tongue, an experience unmatched by any of his competition.

When he wasn’t conducting business, Mikhail was in the kitchen, overseeing the chefs as they prepared the day’s selections. It was here that Mishca found his father wearing a stained, white apron tied around his waist, a large silver spoon in hand as he tasted what looked like beets.

Mishca had barely entered the kitchens when Mikhail called out, “I hear the Albanians are in town.”

He really shouldn’t have been surprised that his father had heard, hardly anything went down in this city that he didn’t know about. “It’s why I’m here.”

Territories were in place for a reason, primarily to ensure that whenever a neighboring organization intruded, they announced their presence. Before Mishca had even joined the ranks, it had been common practice to shoot first and question later. After a few awful, bloody accidents, the
Bratva
made it clear to anyone who thought to near them that an invitation was required. For the Albanians, however, the arrangement was entirely different. They were never allowed on the Russians’ territory. Ever.

“What have you done now?” Mikhail asked wiping his hands clean.

“Nothing that I’m aware of. I try to steer clear of them after the
incident
.”

He didn’t have to elaborate, Mikhail knew exactly what he was talking about.

“And I assume I’m not needed?”

“I can handle it.”

Mikhail studied him, finally nodding. “So be it. I trust you will have this wrapped up quickly. I’m entertaining guests this evening.”

“Senator Torres?” Mishca smirked as his father looked back at him. He wasn’t the only one that heard things.

Mishca left the kitchens, returning to the dining room, finding a booth away from the front windows. Now, he needed only wait for them to show up.

He hadn’t come unprepared however, Mishca had called a few of his men to meet him here, just to ensure everyone’s compliance. Vlad was already stationed nearby, as well as Donald and Raj who often worked security at his club.

Then there was the other.

He walked through the front doors, yelling out at a man that mistakenly bumped into him on his way in. He had a head full of curling blonde hair and blue eyes, but his rather pleasant look contrasted with the psychopath he truly was.

Luka Sergeyev was another of Mishca’s enforcers, a fact that many others didn’t understand. They thought, because of his age, he didn’t deserve the position, but that mattered little to Mishca--he too was disregarded because of his age--and mattered even less to Luka.

He had zero regard for authority besides Mikhail, and when he was in the mood, for Mishca as well. While others wore suits, Luka only owned jeans and T-shirts. He routinely turned up late for meetings--if for no other reason than to piss Mishca off--hardly spoke, and had a warped sense of humor. It didn’t mean that he didn’t respect Mishca and the work he did, he just wasn’t as traditional about it.

It also didn’t help that he could be a bit…unpredictable. Men in the
Bratva
came from various walks of life, but Luka came from several different backgrounds, ones that Mishca didn’t truly know since Luka refused to talk about it. The only thing Mishca knew for sure was that Luka’s parents had been Albanian.

Mishca didn’t even know Luka’s real name.

He plopped down in the chair beside Mishca, taking a big bite of the green apple in his hand. “What’s doing, Boss?”

Vlad rolled his eyes, the only thing anyone did when Luka was around.

Glancing down at his watch, Mishca noted the hour. “I’m surprised you’re on time,” Mishca said undoing his cufflinks to roll his sleeves up.

Luka shrugged, talking with his mouth full. “Natasha was busy.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Mishca didn’t bother to respond, not wanting to attempt to broach the subject of Luka with one of the girls from The Gilded Room.

Instead, he waited in silence, trying to prepare himself for the men he knew were coming.

There was one thing Mishca knew about the Albanians. They were volatile.

The organization as a whole lived by their own set of rules that dictated how they handled their business, and if they even thought they were being disrespected, the Albanians—namely the ones Mishca knew—made sure to send a message in retaliation.