Since I took over this Bratva when my father fled the country in the middle of the night, I’ve been to war again and again. I’ve fought Greeks and Armenians, motorcycle clubs out of the Midwest and seedy Baltimore gangs toting sawed-off shotguns and attitude aplenty. I’ve sent them all packing, whether in coffins or police body bags spread across the five boroughs in tiny, bite-sized pieces.
But this… this is one war that might not end so cleanly.
Through the window of my office, I see Natalia unrolling her yoga mat on the patio. Her high-waisted leggings are skin tight and her sports bra is bright and revealing.
This is the third day in a row she’s walked her green yoga mat over to this side of the house.
The first day, I told myself she was here for the scenery. This location offers
