Malta with My Best Friend’s Dad by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Twelve

Kane

A Russian approaches me as I walk down the hill toward the village. He’s wearing a white vest that shows his tattooed arms, and his hair is jet-black and slicked to the side. I peg him for a member of the Bratva before we’re within a hundred yards of each other.

He raises his hands as he comes to a stop in front of me. “No weapons. No violence. Sergey only wants to talk.”

I gesture toward the village. A group of elderly Maltese women walk by with paper bags of bread, and a child rides by on his bicycle.

The village is waking up. The world is waking up.

“Where is he?” I ask in Russian.

The man’s eyes widen. “You speak our language?”

“My name is Konstantinov. It’s hardly a surprise.”

“You are Russian?” the man asks.

I shake my head. “Born in America. But my parents were Russian. Where is your employer?”

“Waiting,” the man says. “Follow me. I’ll take you to him.”

My survival instincts roar at me not to go with him, and I take a step back. “Tell him to come out in the open. I’m not being led to my death.”

The man winces. “It is difficult to tell him anything right now.”

I detect some distaste in his voice, even in the Russian, which I have rarely had cause to speak since I left the States and stopped associating with the Bratva. Perhaps Sergey’s men find it as ridiculous as I do, that he’d drag them all the way out here, that he’d forced them to come to Malta for a personal vendetta, instead of making money in New York or Moscow.

“He knows me. He knows I’m not an idiot.” I nod to a nearby bench, next to the dusty road, which is empty at the moment. “Tell him I’m waiting here for him. We can talk like gentlemen.”

Without waiting for a reply, I stride over to the bench, nerves buzzing up and down my body. Sergey has always been on-edge, but he was able to hide it for a time when I was working with him. But after what happened – after I told him no, fuck no – something seemed to snap in him.

And then, as the saying goes, all hell broke loose.

I curl my fist around my cell phone as I wait, watching people stroll by, my eyes tracking them to check for any sign of weapons. Jocko will call me if the situation with Kelly and Lena changes.

Kelly.

Her name alone sends thoughts rioting around my mind, hungry sensations surging through my body. I think of the way she stared, so wide-eyed, so receptive when I told her who she belonged to. I think of the blush which marked her gorgeous cheeks and the way she pursed her lips.

I think of her, all the different shades of her, and how good it’s going to feel to make her mine.

But thoughts of Lena slam into me a second later, and I glance over to Medina, to make sure she hasn’t somehow slipped Jocko’s watch.

No, no damn way.

Jocko’s never made a mistake in all the time I’ve known him.

Small stuff, fine, but nothing as big as letting my daughter find out I’m just miles away from her.

Luckily her balcony doesn’t afford her a view of my bench, because she might be able to tell it’s me even across the hazy Maltese air.

Finally, the Russian emerges from the village, his eyes downcast. Drops of blood slide down his face and over his lips, and then Sergey swaggers up next to him.

In Russian, he spits, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

The man turns and stalks back into the village.

The years have not been kind to Sergey. He was lean when I left the states, but his belly has swollen now, making his new steroid-infused muscles look even more ridiculous. He’s five years younger than me but his face is creased with all the drugs he’s taken, all the liquor he’s abused himself with.

I stand to greet him, looking him eye to eye. We’re the same height, around six and a half feet. His arms are bigger than mine. His shoulders are chunkier. But I can tell it’s from drugs. They have a swollen, balloon-like quality.

“It has been a long time, brother,” Sergey says.

The word brother sends hateful shivers moving through me, the beast in me making my fingers twitch as I resist the urge to go for his throat.

I know what sort of business this man is involved in…

Even if I didn’t before, even if I made a mistake by ever getting involved with him.

“Whose fault is that?” I try to keep my tone civil, but rage boils up through it. “Why are you here, Sergey?”

“Why do you think?” He laughs as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, aiming a sickening leer at me. “I heard your sweet daughter was leaving American soil and I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. I sent a man… And I was right.”

“But why?” I snarl. “I’ve kept to our arrangement. You exiled me and in exchange, you said you’d leave my family alone. You swore on the bonds of the Bratva.”

“Because you offended me.” The man is deranged. His eyes glimmer and his lips peel back. “You told me no, Kane, and I can’t… I can not let this go, the way you looked at me like you were better than me.”

My hand curls into a fist as I fight back the words, I am better than you, you sick fuck. I push them down and stare firmly into his eyes, trying to mask the message I so hungrily want to roar.

“You came all the way to Malta for that?”

“I swore I wouldn’t hurt you or your family on American soil. I didn’t say anything about Malta, did I?”

I shake my head, letting out a savage peal of laughter.

“Is something funny?” Sergey snaps. “Why are you laughing?”

“Do you have any idea how much weaker this makes you look, traveling all this way on a three year vendetta? Do you have any goddamn clue how messed up that is? Your men don’t want to be sent on missions for personal revenge. Your men want to make money. This is a stupid play. That’s why I’m laughing.”

His eyes flare and he lets out a shaking sigh. “You wouldn’t be laughing if you knew what we were going to do to your daughter.”

Something snaps in me and I lunge forward, unable to stop my hands from lashing out for his throat.

I squeeze down and lift him off his feet, his eyes bulging, as Russians emerge from the streets of Rabat and stalk toward me.

“Call your men off,” I snarl, as his legs kick and his face turns red.

“I… can’t… breathe…”

I drop him and stare down hard at him, letting him know I’m not fucking around. “Call. Your. Men. Off.”

He returns my gaze for a moment, as though debating telling them to attack me. My eyes scan over the Russians, counting six, seven, eight as they emerge from the village, all of them covered in tattoos, all over their necks and arms and hands and faces.

“This isn’t New York,” I growl. “You don’t own the cops here. What do you think happens if you start some shit, eh?”

He rubs at his throat, and then turns and barks instructions in Russian. “Back to the village. Now.”

My gaze is drawn to the men’s faces, to the way they exchange glances, as though they’re tired of taking instructions from a man who’s so unhinged. But tired or not, it’d take a brave bastard to make the first move against Sergey. And the last thing I’m going to do is rely on the bravery of criminals.

“That was a mistake,” Sergey snarls.

“So was threatening my daughter.” I take a step forward. “The smartest thing you could do is leave, Sergey, leave and never come back. This grudge… can’t you see how insane it is? We compromised. I left. My daughter has lived three years of her goddamn life without me. What more do you want?”

“I want you to correct your mistake,” he snaps.

I shake my head, stunned at the delusions of this man, that he thinks I’d ever do such a thing. “That’s not going to happen.”

His hand continues to rub his throat as he laughs, gravelly and rough. “Then you can’t hold me responsible for what happens next.”

Turning away, he swaggers toward the city, my mind flooding with the thought of charging after him and ending this right here. But if I fall upon him like I want to – the fury thundering through me – I could be arrested.

I won’t be here for Lena. I won’t be here for Kelly.

Kelly.

My chest tightens as her name punches through me, a primal reminder that I have to somehow get us all out of this.

Alive, ready to face the future, ready to fill our lives with closeness and love and contentment and peace.

My cell phone rings.

Jocko.

“What is it?” I ask, answering.

“The girls are on the move.”

Fuck.