Page 5 of The Brigadier

“Come on, boss. You know better.”

“I guess. Drop by later for a drink when the workday is finished.”

“Will do.”

I yanked on my jacket, shoving my weapon into my pocket. Most of the customers knew who owned the place and could guess at times what happened behind closed doors but there were women and children in the restaurant tonight.

The last thing I wanted was to provide more nightmares than life in general offered.

As I strode out of the kitchen, I waved to my manager before hitting the sunshine. At least New York in October was a lovely time of year.

CHAPTER 3

Chantel

New York.

The city of millions of lights.

The Big Apple.

I’d wanted to live in the vibrant location all my life. Sure, LA was amazing in its own way, especially when your father had money. I’d grown up in a fabulous house in Beverly Hills, people watching all the beautiful people worth millions.

Including celebrities of all types.

I’d lived a life of luxury, never wanting anything.

The palm trees lining the streets were lovely, but the traffic was horrific.

My mother wasn’t really motherly in the traditional way, adoring the money and the clout, the ability to redesign and decorate the Mediterranean house every few years. She knew how to throwthe most fabulous parties, the kind you developed a reputation for.

I’d thought I lived a fairytale.

I’d been a teenager when I’d realized the full extent of how dangerous my father was. To me, he’d been just a great guy who’d pretended to be Santa Claus every Christmas and had even helped with boy issues.

Until the day I walked in on him executing a man in cold blood.

That fairytale had been shattered.

My father had told me the man had betrayed him, but to put a bullet in his brain? It was the stuff thriller movies were made of. From then on, I’d gleaned information, and had listened in better on conversations, including the whispers my supposed friends had made behind my back. I learned never to trust anyone but family.

But in New York, to my father’s anger, I would drop my last name, using my mother’s maiden name to blend in. I wanted to make my own name. Not being known as a Bratva princess. I’d been forced to beg and cajole then finally remind my father I would soon turn twenty-five and could simply walk out.

He’d allowed it, insisting on giving me money, which I’d refused. This was the make it or break it moment for me.

So, the job was low on the totem pole, but I didn’t plan on staying there for very long. I’d worked my fucking butt off.

Unfortunately, I was required to fulfill one last duty as daughter of the infamous Vissarian Kuzmin, Pakhan of Los Angeles.

I had to attend a party with my parents.

It wasn’t that I minded dressing up in designer dresses and heels, or sporting perfect makeup and hair, but the attire wasn’t my style. That was my mother’s doing. Or maybe I should say insistence. She looked glamorous at all times. I had no clue how a woman could go throughout the day and never look messed up.

Then again, I didn’t think she’d worked a day in her adult life. She certainly had never had dirt under her fingernails. Nope. My father hired people to do everything. Me? I was the kid who could easily change oil in a car, replace spark plugs and a few other things. I could even change a tire all by myself.

My father usually just shook his head while my mother tormented me that I would never marry the right man. Like there was one out there. Not for a girl like me. When they found out who I was, or more important who my father was, they either ran far away in fear or were stupid enough to try to impress the important man.

Big mistake.