The officer said, “You drinking?”
I said, “You buying?”
We just laughed and laughed.
I need bail money.
-Funny Meme
“Yeah?”
“Have you found Natasha yet?”
“Nyet.” Sighing, I replace the rocks glass of vodka back on the shiny, black bar top. Pulling the phone away as he goes silent, the screen flashes ‘call ended.’ He hung up on me—again.
Fucker.
Every time I hear from him, it’s a random phone call with the same question. So far each one’s ended with me forced to give him the same reply and him hanging up without a word.
If Niko weren't my cousin’s best friend and personal guard, I wouldn’t have started searching for his sister in the first place. Now it’s like an addiction. My own twisted drive is pushing me to hunt down and discover a woman who’s been kidnapped since she was merely a child. This world’s a fucked-up place to do that to a kid, that’s for sure.
It’s not even my damn department. I’m a cop, and not just your run-of-the-mill-parking-ticket-writer either. I’m undercover. I bust perps like Niko and the rest of my family, happily turning them over to the Feds. Hell, I almost was a Fed—and would still love to be—had it not been for my father popping up a while back, calling me out of the blue.
I’ve purposely distanced myself from that part of my family to prove that I’m nothing like that bloodline. I’m not Mafia, and I’m not a Masterson. Just to drive it in deeper that I’m different and I’ll never belong to that side of my family, my last name’s Masters.
Fuck. They’ve even got me speaking Russian now. I’ve never spoken Russian. I studied it along with the country my first year in college, and I was hooked.
I fell in love with the language at a young age, hearing my father speak it when I was a child. That only happened on the rare occasion he gave us a call, though, and I was lucky to catch him on the phone with my mom. The calls were never for me, only to speak to her. It used to kill me inside, but I grew to accept it. Mafia men are hard; they preach family, but it’s never true. The life always overtakes everything, and most of them end up losing their families and the people they’re closest to.
“Another?” My nod’s curt, and I’m interrupted by my damn cell vibrating again. Stupid thing is always going off. Shaking my head toward the fresh drink, I swipe over the screen.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Exterminator,” he grumbles immediately. He’s an outlaw biker I’ve come in contact with a few times. Criminal down to his bones, but that’s beside the point, I need information.
“Did you find anything?”
Finally, he’s called me back. I’ve been waiting for this guy to get back to me about another possible lead on Natasha. His motorcycle club went into Mexico for me, searching over a massive-sized cartel compound a few years back. They returned with nothing but a useless maid. To say I was disappointed is an understatement, and Niko was beyond furious it’s taken so long.
I swear if my chief gets wind of me doing all this shit, my ass will be toast. I still can’t believe that I initially agreed in the first place. I’m not supposed to get wrapped up in cases outside of the department. It’s against protocol.
“No. Just another dead end.”
“Fuck my life. Okay. Your money’s been transferred already.”
This time it’s me hanging up and tossing the device onto the counter top. It feels like I’m back to square one each time I hit a dead lead, and it’s costing a goddamn mint to head up the search for her. Where could these kidnappers be hiding this woman? Is she even alive at this point? I know she’s most likely lost in the sex trade; it’s discouraging and motivating at the same time. I couldn’t let my own sister drown in that filth of a life—if I had a sister, that is.
My father’s been funding this little venture. He thinks it’ll win back his nephews. I, on the other hand, know he’s a fool and should just stay the hell out of my cousins’ way. Instead, he attempts to meddle in their business, not used to being out of the loop and not in charge. He’s an idiot.
Yep, that’s right. I’m an officer of the law, and my father’s the previously pushed out, King of the Russian Bratva. It’s ironic how life plays out sometimes.
Some may wonder why I’m not busy filling the role as King now, but I’ve never been in that lifestyle. I wouldn’t know much about being a criminal, besides what I’ve learned as a peace officer. I’ve always veered in the opposite direction, especially seeing how paranoid my mom was while I was growing up.
My father stayed in Russia most of my life, so I grew up alone with my mom. She worked while raising me and we lived a fairly simple life. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I learned exactly what my family was about.
I didn’t know much about my cousins; Tate aka Tatkiv ‘Knees’ Masterson and Viktor ‘The Cleaner’ Masterson, until these recent years. They were the proclaimed Princes of the Russian empires since I was lucky enough to be hidden away. It was time for them to rightfully take their places at the head of the Russkaya Mafiya and Bratva but ran into some issues with their father, Gizya. He’s my uncle—my father’s brother—and as corrupt as the man himself. They’re definitely related, that’s for sure.
I helped make Gizya disappear without Viktor sinking him to the bottom of a lake or Tate beating him to death with a bat. You’d swear my cousin played professional baseball with the way that man can swing a bat at someone. Anyhow, I stepped in to offer them my assistance. I was shocked that they trusted me so easily, but they wrote it off as me being family.
Only the three of us know what really happened to Gizya and it has to stay that way.
That little experience forged a bond with two men I had no idea were so much like myself. They could be my own brothers, that’s how at ease I always feel when I’m around them. I was also a little freaked with how much we all look alike. Even with me pushing away from the Mafiya, there’s no doubt, by looking at me, where I come from and who my family is.
I’ve always known I was of Russian descent, but around those two, there’s no question left in my mind. My hair’s a bit lighter; I’m scruffier and covered in tattoos. Tate and Viktor have their fair share of ink, but my neck, hands, fingers, and calves are all done, whereas theirs aren’t. The three of us have hazel colored eyes, a trait passed down by our fathers, and we all stand with the same build—muscular, but lean. According to my father, it’s the frame of the perfect Russian leader.
He’d contacted me years back, needing my assistance. Niko’s wife, Sabrina, had been taken against her will during Viktor’s wedding, of all places. No one would expect anything like that to happen since the place was crawling with Russian soldiers and various men working security. I did what I could to help at the time. Granted, I wasn’t as invested as I am now or I probably would’ve found Sabrina even quicker than I had.
I’m fairly certain her abduction was by the same people who stole Niko’s sister when he was a child. Usually, that sort’s all interconnected when it comes to the sex trade. Everyone knows one another in the business; it’s almost like being a regular at a bar. Only it’s not as simple as a friendly customer at the local drinking hole. It’s a sick, fucked-up fetish, created by men wanting to control and abuse women.
With my newest idea gone to shit, looks like I may need to pack up and head to Houston. A buddy of mine I went to the academy with just so happens to be a Morelli. His gramps runs the Italian side of things in Chicago. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been searching for this woman for five years now.
I know—five years.
Huffing out a breath, I dial my father next.
“Da?”
“It’s me.”
“Moy sin!” My son, he greets.
“Da. I have business in Texas.”
“I’ll send my jet, nine p.m.”
“Spaseeba.”
“’Tis nothing. How are you, sin?”
“I’ll call you if I hear anything.”
I’m not calling to exchange pleasantries. I don’t care how he is, and he doesn’t need to know how I am. This is strictly business.
“Right.” He finishes, and I hang up again.
Stupid phone.
“Another drink?” The older bar owner offers, staring at my still-full vodka he’d placed before me earlier.
“No thanks, cash me out.”
Handing him two tens, I get to my feet, stuffing my cell in my pocket and grab my keys to my blacked-out Jeep Wrangler. It’s pretty badass, jacked up on a seven-inch lift with some chunky thirty-sevens and custom rims. It’s the one thing I spend money on to treat myself. “We’re good,” I say loudly and wave him off, so he keeps the change. It’s not much—I’m Russian, so I like expensive vodka.
“Thanks.”
He places the tip in one of the jars lining the bar, and I head out. The drive to my apartment doesn’t take long thankfully, so I scoop up my ready-made duffle. I swiftly trade out my attire and lock my apartment up tight. It’s nothing special, but it gets me by when I’m not busy on a case.
Flying in my father’s jet and then meeting the Morelli family, I need to reek of business opportunities. One thing I’m good at, with being undercover, is adapting to different situations. Straightening my custom-tailored suit my father sent for my academy graduation years ago, I load back into my Jeep and head toward the airport.
The lady comes over the speaker as I hit the UConnect button. “Say call or options.”
“Call.”
“Who would you like to call?”
“Call Bax.” That’s the code name I have in here for my chief, and if I ever have to speak to him when the heat’s on or if someone else checks out his number and doesn’t use that name, he knows.
“Calling Bax.”
It rings twice before he gruffly answers, “Bax here.”
“Chief.”
“Masters.”
“I wanted to let you know I’m headed out of town.”
“You’re on vacation; you don’t have to let me know if you’re going out of town,” he grumbles, and I huff.
“No, I’m on paid suspension until the Johnson case is over with.”
“It’s just the typical mumbo jumbo while the case is filed away. You have nothing to worry about; you followed protocol.”
“I shot five people.”
“They were criminals.”
I can almost see his shrug as the words leave him. I know he’d be sitting behind his large, old oak desk, moving his shoulders like it’s whatever. I’ve worked for him for six years now; we’re used to each other.
“I’m leaving; don’t want you to think I’m pulling a runner.”
He starts chuckling. “Noted. Go have some fun Masters, you work too much.”
“Says the man in charge of my schedule,” I retort, and he laughs again.
“Safe travels and all that.”
“Later, Chief.” The UConnect beeps and turns off as he hangs up.