Chapter Three

One thing about New Orleans—it catered to nearly every walk of life. Young. Old. Rich. Poor. Boisterous or somber. The sinners and the saved. Everyone had a place, and each of the many neighborhoods that made up the city had their own flair and feel.

Kir stared out Roman’s passenger window. Up and down Tchoupitoulas Street, bright lights, music and laughter from bar hopping patrons beat back the cloud-shrouded night, but the Mississippi River rolled dark and murky in the shadows not a tenth of a mile away. A deathly black ribbon of whispers more appropriate for his mood.

Roman steered them down Washington and into the heart of Irish Channel toward the Victorian-style house his computer whiz, Kevin, had sealed the deal on just four months ago. It’d been the first property he’d ever owned.

As of tonight, it would also be his last.

Four men stood out front, two on the raised wood porch and the others just behind the knee-high wrought iron fence that fronted the tiny yard. Every one of them zeroed in on Roman’s Ford Raptor as he parked directly in front. The beast of a truck was black and as gritty and intimidating as its owner.

An avtoritet didn’t lose their composure. Didn’t act without purpose, or speak without thought. Especially when those he led looked on.

But Kir wanted blood. Wanted to let loose the furious howl building behind his sternum and deal the killing blow for whoever had dared to touch one of his own.

Roman killed the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. “They will watch you. Whatever tone you set, they will echo.”

He forced himself to speak. Willed the air in his lungs to give voice to the mantra he’d repeated to himself the whole drive over. “I will not dishonor my pakhan, or the peace he’s created, and move without reason.” He met Roman’s stare. “But this injustice cannot stand. You know it. Sergei knows it. Kevin will have his vengeance.”

Outside, the scents of cigarette smoke, moss, and freshly laid mulch hung thick in the air, held trapped by the oppressive humidity with no hope of a breeze to sweep them on their way. The fine weave of his button-down rubbed uncomfortably against his skin, and his suit jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but the weight of his Glock stashed in his holster was a comfort.

His men fell in beside him and Roman as they strode to the door, each offering a nod, but keeping their silence. Mikey waited by the front door, his mouth clamped tight and his gaze bright with rage.

Kir met him on the porch. “How long ago did you find him?”

“An hour.” Mikey opened the ten-foot-tall wood door, stepped back for Kir and Roman to go through, then followed. “Reggie and I were gonna pick him up and meet the rest of you at Cure. We found him in his bed. Knife to the heart.”

The home might have been a classic, but the interior was clearly that of a bachelor. The living room mostly consisted of a huge flannel couch that several of their men had crashed on in recent months, an oversized leather chair beside it and a state-of-the-art flat screen mounted on the wall. With little else to absorb the sound, their combined footsteps on the restored wood floors ricocheted off tall ceilings. “Forced entry?”