Bite Me

CHAPTER 28

Livy felt someone stroke her hair, and she looked up to see a showered, shaved, and expertly dressed Vic crouching beside the bed she’d gone to sleep in the night before, when she’d left him and Novikov snoring in the other bedroom.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Almost eight. You going in to work?”

“Sure. Where are you going?”

“Have to go meet someone.”

“A woman?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re all dressed up.”

“There are some people you don’t meet looking shabby.”

Livy snorted. “You’re meeting a Russian mobster?”

Vic blinked, his entire body tensing. “How did you know that?”

“You ask me these questions when you know I come from a family of unrepentant felons.”

He chuckled and kissed her. “I’ll call you when I’m done. Novikov’s already gone to get in his training. So don’t worry about him.”

“I wasn’t planning to worry about him,” she sighed out, snuggling into her pillow. “Be careful.”

Vic stopped in the doorway and gazed at her a moment before replying in Polish, “I will.”

That was when she realized she’d actually cautioned him in Polish. A language she reserved for talking to her family. And it was like Vic understood the significance of that slip.

Livy, however, refused to dwell on it. Refused.

Vic met Grigori Volkov in a private dining room above the Russian restaurant the mobster owned with his Pack deep in the heart of Brighton Beach.

The Volkov Pack out of Moscow had a rich and violent history. Some American Packs referred to them as the Smiths of Eastern Europe. An insult that had started many a mauling back in the day.

The two men were sitting at a small round table dwarfed by their size, cups of coffee poured for them by a pretty She-wolf waitress.

“It’s good to see you again, Victor Barinov,” Grigori cheered. Unlike many wolves, the older male was a typically happy canine, but his cheerfulness hid a dangerous side that no one really wanted to face without body armor and an escape route. “It has been long time.”

“It has, Grigori. And it’s good to see you, too. I hope all is well with you and your Pack.”

“Very well. The streets of this city are paved with gold and need. My two favorite things.”

Vic smiled, hating himself a little for liking the mobster so much.

“My brothers handle Russia. I handle business here. It all goes well for the Volkovs. But I know you’re not here to catch up on old times, dear Victor. So, what has you coming to Grigori?”

“I’ve been looking into something for someone. And I came across a name that I know was associated with you and your Pack in the past. Don’t know about now, but before anyone moves forward—”

“You want to make sure no ugly lines are crossed. You are so thoughtful for man with feline mother.”

“A feline mother who turned you down for a date, I believe.”

“She did. Big mistake. You could have been my son. All this could have been yours.”

“Oh, let’s admit that your mother never would have let that happen. She’d have seen you and my mother dead first.”

“Excellent point. My sweet mother does hate felines more than fleas in heat of summer.” He flicked his hand. “But that is past. Tell me this name and we will go from there.”

“Rob Yardley.”

And Vic felt it. In that moment. In that second. The air went out of the room. The other wolves who played chess and watched TV nearby slowly looked at him.

Immediately, Vic raised his hands. “Not a problem. I’ll—”

“Quiet,” Grigori snapped. He looked around the room. “Everyone out!” The wolves slowly got to their extremely large feet. “Move as if there is purpose!” Grigori bellowed.

Within seconds, the room cleared out, leaving the two males alone.

“Listen, Grigori—” Vic began.

“No, Victor. No. I speak to you as friend who came to my little girl’s wedding. The friend who saved my life many years back.”

“Grigori, come on. We paid each other back for all those things many years ago.”

“No. I used to think, how do I pay back man who saved life when he is not part of Pack or family or breed? But now . . . now I can pay you back.”

Vic was suddenly very confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Yardley is degenerate gambler.”

“You love degenerate gamblers.”

“Yes. And he owed me much money. But I sold his debt to another.”

Vic leaned back in his chair. “You sold his debt? After you broke his legs or arms or something?”

“No.” Grigori leaned in, lowered his voice. “I would have not sold his debt because I like people who owe me to pay me back themselves. But I did it anyway. What does that tell you, Victor Barinov?”

“That Stalin himself came back from the dead and paid Yardley’s debt? That’s the only reason I can think of that might prompt you into doing something you don’t want to do.”

Grigori looked off. “Zombies do terrify me, but no.” He looked back at Vic. “I admit this only to you, my friend. But there is only one man I would ever think of giving in to since the untimely death of my father.”

Vic blinked at the statement. The death of Grigori’s father had been untimely . . . because he’d been murdered in the streets of Moscow. Cut down in full view of passersby with a knife against his throat. A murder that no one had ever been tried for because the one who’d used that blade had been . . .

Vic let out a breath. “Chumakov? Rostislav Chumakov? He bought Yardley’s debt from you?”

“It sickened me. To give that man anything. But you know why I did it.”

To protect his Pack. To protect his children and mate. Because all of them would have been at risk if Grigori had said no.

“You must back away from this, Victor Barinov. I tell you this as my friend. Because if he hears you look for those connected to him, even a rumor . . .”

“I can’t.”

“Victor—”

“No, no. I mean . . . I have no problem backing away. But those I’m helping—they will never back off, Grigori. They will never back away.”

“Are they foolish full-humans? Because what species or breed would not back away from Rostislav Chuma—”

“Honey badgers.”

“Oh,” Grigori said, his usually cheerful canine eyes suddenly looking very sad for Vic. “Oh, my friend . . . we would be better if this involved zombies.”

Vic walked out of the restaurant and over to his SUV. He rested against the vehicle, wondering how he was going to handle this.

And that was where he stayed for a good hour—with absolutely no ideas on what to do next.

So he did what he always did when he didn’t know what to do next.

Vic pulled his phone out of his back pocket and hit the speed dial. When he heard the voice on the other side, he sighed out gratefully.

“Papa,” he said in Russian, “I need you.”