Alexander was a fortunate man, whether he knew it or not. For if Viktor had his way with things, he wouldn’t have been so courteous as to arrange a meeting at The Garden Hotel. The Bratva lived on tradition, and there were protocols in place that he was expected to follow to the last letter. But it hardly stopped the pakhan from fantasizing over the idea of letting his monsters out of their cage for the night, to make the streets of Brooklyn run red with Irish blood. Celine and Kaya, he imagined, would have been all for it if he gave them half an opportunity. Noah too, given their motivation.
Regardless, rules were rules.
A conference room had been booked ahead of time. Viktor, flanked by two of his guards out of habit than necessity, was nothing short of punctual. As he entered, his eyes immediately sought out the newest object of his loathing; the Irish fucker Alexander Barrett. He could feel the anger rising in him already, hot and poisonous as it coursed through his veins and rose up the back of his throat, constricting it. Experience helped him to keep a neutral expression, but if his gaze could kill, the Irish infection in New York would have surely been eradicated.
“Alexander.” He said bluntly, taking his seat across the room from the mafia boss. How tempting it was, to close the distance between him just so he could choke the life out of the smug bastard. After what he had done to Tatiana, his only sister, who knew nothing of what the Bratva did or who the Valentinas truly were, it would have been a mercy. “I think it goes without saying that we have some business to settle regarding your latest...escapades. You should be thankful you made it here without incident.“ Viktor started, a cruel smile curling into place. “You have committed a great offence against the Bratva, friend. I’m here for compensation.“
