Acquainted

  Acquainted

  London Miller

  LM Books, LLC

  Copyright © 2018 by London Miller

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by LM Books, LLC

  Praise for London Miller

  “London Miller writes with both complex emotion, high paced intensity and a diverse cast of misfits that you can't help falling in love with.”

  Bestselling Author, Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “The way the Den of Mercenaries and Wild Bunch series are intricately woven into each other is impressive.”

  Edgy Reviews, Lily

  “London has the best way with words - and she really knows how to make problematic heroes you can't help but to love.”

  Bestselling Author, Bethany-Kris

  Also by London Miller

  VOLKOV BRATVA

  In the Beginning

  Until the End

  The Final Hour

  Time Stood Still

  Valon: What Once Was

  Hidden Monsters

  The Morning

  DEN OF MERCENARIES

  Red.

  Celt.

  Nix.

  Calavera.

  Skorpion.

  Syn.

  Iris.

  THE WILD BUNCH

  Crooks & Kings

  Shadows & Silence

  SEASONS OF BETRAYAL

  Where the Sun Hides

  Where the Snow Falls

  Where the Wind Whispers

  For BK.

  Contents

  Also by London Miller

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Newsletter

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Vera Markovic hated everything about flying.

  It wasn't so much the way the plane lifted off the runway—though that was just as unnerving—or how her back pressed against the seat and her hands clutched at the armrests that set her on edge—though both were a close second. Not even while the plane was in the air and the disorientated feeling of looking out the window at the fluffy clouds they hovered below mattered really.

  It was the descent that worried her the most, and she counted down the seconds until she was on the ground again.

  Every time the plane dipped, her stomach lurched, and panic set in. Rationally, she knew the plane was unlikely to go down, but she couldn’t help but think it would, and before she knew it, the oxygen masks would drop down, and she’d be locked inside a deathtrap heading straight for a fiery death below.

  But paranoid thoughts aside, fortunately, her flight to Puerto Vallarta—an hour’s drive away from her actual destination—was finally coming to an end.

  Locking the screen of her iPad, she stowed it away inside her carry-on bag and snapped her seat belt back on once the light flickered and the captain came over the intercom to let them know to prepare for landing.

  Today was the first day of a vacation she had never intended to take.

  If it were up to her, she would be back in her offices in Manhattan, working on an upcoming interior design project with the team of three who worked for her.

  It was her biggest contract to date, one that had cost her client a small fortune, but business tycoons rarely blinked an eye at the amount their wives spent to keep them happy.

  Vera was thankful for that since it kept her in business.

  But instead of being home, Frances—her assistant and closest friend—had demanded she leave the office and get away for a while. In part because she had never taken so much as a sick day in the more than five years since she opened her studio, but also because her father, Vasily, was intent on driving her insane.

  "You work too much," Frances had said with a shake of her head, her wavy black hair bouncing with the movement. Unlike Vera, who tended to be serious at times, Frances was exuberant.

  Even on the days when she had to arrive at the office at five thirty in the morning because they had a full day of work ahead and couldn’t afford to waste a minute, Frances always showed up in a good mood. Though, a venti Frappuccino from Starbucks assisted that happiness on those days.

  "You should get out and do something," she’d continued when Vera hadn’t responded.

  She’d been giving Vera that same advice since she found her asleep at her desk three months ago, having spent the night at her office.

  Now, she was finally taking her up on that advice.

  Not because she didn't want to work—which was why she'd spent the entire six-hour flight on her iPad, hunting through catalogs and bookmarking pieces she would use later—but because she'd finally reached her breaking point and found a reason to escape the city for a while.

  And that reason was currently a red dot over the icon on her iPhone, indicating she had a new voicemail.

  Only one person left voice messages on her private line.

  Vasily.

  And while he might have been the man who helped bring her into this world, he was also the man she hated most.

  Growing up, she had never thought a day would come when she wasn't a daddy's girl—her father's printsessa. She had idolized him, loving him as only a daughter could love the man who sheltered and protected and doted on her like no one else ever did.

  At least until his brand of love started to feel more like suffocation.

  Until she had learned that her father was as much of a monster as he was rumored to be.

  Vera had learned that all too well.

  Felt the unforgiving hand of it.

  Pushing all thoughts of Vasily and the pending message she’d left unheard from her mind—she was on vacation, after all—Vera waited for the inevitable thump as they hit the tarmac, the deafening sound of the wings slowing them down filling her ears.

  But even as it attacked her senses, she still breathed out a sigh of relief.

  They were on the ground and in one piece, at least.

  The plane taxied for a bit before they finally arrived at the gate, and the seat belt light turned off once more.

  Donning her sunglasses, she grabbed the small tote bag she'd brought with her on the plane and walked off, smiling and whispering a thanks as she passed the flight attendants.

  Before she even hit the hallway of the airport, she could feel the sweltering heat all around her.

  Summer here in Mexico wasn't like the summers in New York. It was humid and sticky, and she was already glad she hadn't packed anything more serious than high-slit skirts and summer dresses for this trip, thinking of the way the denim would cling to her.

  By the time she made her way through customs and finally out to where baggage claim was, Vera had to reach into her bag and pull out a small tie so she could wrap her dark hair up into a messy bun at the top of her head.

  As she waited, she searched the sea of people busily making their way through the airport until she found the man in an oversized tuxedo with a hat tucked under his arm, clutching a sign with her name on it in his tanned hands.

  Though she had booked the trip at the last m
inute—which happened to be two days ago when she saw the number flashing on her phone that she deliberately ignored—the resort where she was staying included a complimentary shuttle service from the airport.

  "Vera Markovic?" the man asked in heavily accented English, reaching for the handle of her suitcase she rolled alongside her.

  "Yes, nice to meet you."

  He seemed to smile wider as she spoke, launching into stories about where she should visit while she was here and all the best places and dishes to eat. Before now, she had been a little nervous about traveling alone, especially when it wouldn't be as simple as calling on one of her brothers to bail her out of a situation if she needed it.

  This was actually her first time traveling by herself. Even as she loved her solitude and lived alone in a townhouse in a quiet suburb just outside of Manhattan, the idea of going somewhere by herself always made her nervous.

  It was an hour's drive from the airport to the resort, and by the time they were pulling up, the sun had started to descend, shades of pink and orange nearly covering the blue of the midday sky in colorful arcs.

  The driver placed her suitcase on the curb as he bid her goodbye, and the doorman stepped forward to retrieve it, while another offered her a drink from the tray he carried. If this was the start of her trip, maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

  The ocean view room she was staying in was only accessible via a golf cart that drove her around the property, following the long line of bungalows until they reached her number.

  Her guide, wearing a white collared shirt tucked into white shorts, explained the amenities offered by the resort. Breakfast buffet served each morning in the main building. A minibar in her room restocked daily with far too many mini bottles of wine and liquor. Vera couldn't care less about the food, though she might remedy that later, considering she hadn’t eaten since she left New York. Her only concern at the moment was the infinity pool just outside her bedroom doors.

  This was why she had picked this specific room—to be able to swim in leisure on the days she didn't feel like actually going out to the beach.

  It was perfect.

  Everything was perfect.

  "Thank you," she told the man, giving him a tip before he saw himself out and left her alone.

  She had only just turned her phone back on when it started ringing, a familiar name gracing the screen. She was already smiling before she put the phone to her ear.

  "Yes, brother, I made it safely."

  "Nearly gave me a heart attack," Ruslan grumbled, sounding more relieved than put out.

  Sometimes, she forgot that in her quest to ignore Vasily, he wasn't the only one whose calls she had left answered.

  "Sorry," she whispered earnestly. She hadn't been thinking when she'd left her phone in airplane mode during the drive over to the resort.

  Considering she had been the one to tell him when her flight would be landing, it made sense that he would have tried to call her to check in. Especially considering who their father was and her family’s reputation.

  It didn't matter that she wasn't a part of the Bratva life or that she had distanced herself as quickly as she possibly could when she turned eighteen by moving away from Brighton Beach by the ocean.

  It didn't matter that she missed having lunch with her mother every day the way they used to, or even getting to spend as much time with her twin sisters—Nika and Dina—as she would like. She couldn't go back.

  She couldn't be a part of a family whose patriarch she despised and whose lifestyle she didn't agree with.

  Vera might have been one-hundred percent Russian mafiya printsessa, but she didn't revere the life as so many others did. The pain it wrought just wasn't worth it.

  "Thank you for calling," she said earnestly because, despite all else, she did love her brother and genuinely enjoyed talking to him.

  Ruslan made a sound that she translated to mean that, of course, he would call, but he surprised her when he said, "If I hadn't, Kaz would have … if he could."

  At the mention of their brother, some of Vera's ease at being on vacation drifted away, but that had become a regular occurrence ever since her younger brother by one year was locked away for a gun charge that should never have stuck.

  But again, Vasily was an asshole, and if he could find a reason to teach one of his children a "lesson," he would.

  Except her.

  Not since the last time.

  Not since he had broken her trust and made her hate him all in the same night.

  "How's he doing in there?" she asked.

  "You know how he is," Ruslan said, and she could almost imagine the shrug that accompanied those words.

  Yeah, she knew her brother, both of them, well.

  "Any idea when he's getting released?"

  "Not yet, but when I do, you'll be the first to know." A voice sounded in the background, low and masculine—familiar—even as she didn't hear what the man was saying. "Work's calling. I'll let you go."

  "Take care of yourself and tell Nathaniel I said hello."

  She smiled when Ruslan grumbled out a response before three staccato beeps sounded in her ear, signaling the end of the call.

  Tossing her phone on the bed, Vera turned back to the sliding glass door and pushed it open. She stepped out onto the balcony, breathing in the cool, salty scent of the ocean water.

  She was only here for five nights.

  Five nights of nothing but sun, swimming, and endless drinks.

  Maybe she would enjoy this after all.

  For as long as Alfie Shelby could remember, he’d wanted to be a gangster.

  That was what London's East End made of men who grew up there. It chewed them up and spit them out, making whatever was left hard and angry with the world. He used his fists to work out that rage and bitterness inside him, becoming one of the best amateur boxers beyond Eddie Q who ever came out of the East End.

  But soon, even that hadn't been enough.

  It wasn’t just enough to have a name that might be whispered with a wistful smile and a sigh of remembrance.

  He wanted to be more.

  More of a man than Reggie Shelby had ever been.

  His father’s legacy was nothing compared to the one he’d made for himself.

  Gunshots drew Alfie from his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. They didn't startle him anymore, not like when he was just a boy, but they managed to make the kid—affectionately dubbed so because the boy was the youngest of his apprentices working for his organization—nearly jump out of his skin.

  "Fucking 'ell, mate. Calm down, yeah?” Alfie called to him, looking over at the man currently holding the pistol.

  The kid listened when he needed to and followed orders better than some of the men twice his age, but he had yet to master how not to react when someone was shooting a pistol next to him. He'd learn, though.

  Alfie had when he was his age.

  Yet even as he grumbled out the order, Alfie shifted on his feet, seeking out the man standing a few feet away who was smiling down at the chrome and gold pistol in his hands. It was as if he had never seen a proper gun before, or perhaps it was because the one he held was one of a kind.

  Custom-made, there was no other like it.

  Alfie made sure of that.

  After all, that was part of his job.

  To find things others couldn't.

  Connect people when arranging a meeting was thought to be impossible.

  He got paid quite a bit of money to be a liaison between families and clients, which was why most called him the broker.

  His current client, Ramir Gomez, had been looking for something unique but deadly. Something flashy and gaudy but with more than just visual appeal. Which was where Alfie had come in and found exactly what he needed via a man who didn’t often do business with men whose names weren’t programmed in his phone.

  Siris Oswald.

  International arms dealer and one of the best smugglers of contraband Alfie
had ever crossed paths with.

  Wanted in seven different countries for a number of crimes even Alfie wasn't completely clear on, Siris didn’t touch down anywhere if a business deal wasn’t worth his time.

  He was also one of the few men Alfie did repeat business with.

  Unlike the rest of them, Siris was across the lot, smiling candidly at the maid who routinely brought them drinks but didn't look at any one of them for longer than a few seconds. Ramir's violent streak was notorious, and he didn't mind making sure the help understood their place.

  But for Siris, she risked a second glance.

  And Siris didn’t give a fuck about anyone’s rules but his own.

  If nothing else, his sex drive was the only thing that rivaled his business sense.

  "This is better than I expected," Ramir said, the cigar in his mouth bobbing as he talked.

  "Right," Alfie said with a nod, not expecting otherwise. "It's why you called me, isn't it?"

  Ramir nodded, looking amused. "And as for our other arrangement?"

  "Not important," he answered, not blinking an eye or shifting a foot.

  They always forgot. The people who came to him for deals and information.

  One negotiation at a time, never more.

  Doing too much business with any one person never meant good things for him, he found. Especially since he made it a point to stay firmly in the middle of all the business he conducted.

  Alfie didn't take sides. He didn't align himself with any one individual unless he signed their fucking paychecks, and even then, his loyalty lasted for as long as they proved necessary to him. The moment they didn't, they could fuck on off back to where he'd dug them out of the gutter and gave them a life.