Page 1 of Luca
PROLOGUE
LUCA ORLOV
LATE JUNE - SURREY, ENGLAND - DISTRACTED
Shit. What did she say?
I cleared my throat and nodded, hoping that was the correct response.
Marcie, the event planner, rambled on about her plans, but I barely registered her words. My attention was fixed on the phone in my pocket, waiting for it to ring. I nodded and kept up appearances, but my mind was elsewhere—back home, where my Bratva family and our Polish allies were under attack. The smile on my face felt like a mask, suffocating me.
Hours had passed since I’d heard from my best friend and pakhan, Mikhail Rominov. The tension built with each second, like a vice tightening around my chest. Every moment of silence from Miki gnawed at me, unravelling the thin facade of calm I desperately tried to maintain. My foot tapped lightly against the floor, a subtle rhythm of unease I hoped no one would notice.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I tried to loosen the knot of tension there, but it was no use. The waiting was killing me. I should have been there, with them. Not holed up here keepingup appearances and pretending like my world wasn’t teetering on the edge of a knife.
Why hadn’t Miki called yet? What the hell was happening?
God, I hated feeling this powerless.
I had faith in Miki’s plan to counter the attacks, sure. But that didn’t mean shit when bullets were flying and men were desperate. Anything could happen. Everything could go wrong in the blink of an eye.
Claire and Marcie chatted away, blissfully unaware of my worries. To them, their presence at Platinum—Miki’s luxury hotel and spa—was all about Marcie organising the New Year’s Eve event. While that was part of the truth, the real reason for their stay was to keep them safely away from the bloodshed and danger back home.
As the head of entertainment for the Rominov family’s legitimate businesses, Miki had tasked me with their safety, a responsibility I took seriously. Yet guilt gnawed at me. While my friends and brothers fought, I was stuck here, babysitting.
My leg bounced, and I exhaled softly, struggling to control my rising agitation. After a decade as a Bratva enforcer, being sidelined like this was unbearable.
“Will that colour scheme work for you, Luca?” Marcie asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Sure, sounds great,” I replied, distractedly rubbing the back of my neck. I didn’t care about the colour. Marcie had good taste, and I trusted her judgement.
The two women leaned over Marcie’s laptop, their easy laughter a stark contrast to the weight on my shoulders. I swirled the whiskey in my hand, untouched for the past hour. Each passing second of silence frayed my nerves further. This wasn’t like me; I thrived on adrenaline and battle. Being powerless on the sidelines twisted my stomach, and I loathed it.
Unable to sit any longer, I rose from the chair, intending to clear my head with a walk. Just as I was about to speak, the phone buzzed in my hand.
Relief flooded me when I saw Miki’s name on the screen. Finally!
“I need to get this,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out onto the balcony of my suite. The cool night air offered little relief from the tension simmering in my chest. I hit the answer button, my eyes drifting back through the glass doors to where Claire and Marcie were still sitting chatting on the sofa.
Miki’s face appeared on the screen, and I felt the weight of the worry I’d been carrying around for the last few days start to lift.
“Miki, how did it go?” I asked, frantic to learn how my friends and family were.
“It’s over. They won’t be bothering us again. Our guys are fine. We lost some of our Polish friends, though, and we almost lost Glowacki. He took a bullet,” he replied.
“Shit!”
“Yeah, but the doc operated on him and although he isn’t out of danger yet, he should be okay,” Miki said, sounding tired. I didn’t blame him. Defending our business and the Rominov home against our enemies would have taken its toll. Yet again, I wished I had been there to help.
“Well, that’s a relief. Magdalena would be devastated if she lost her father,” I replied. Hell, let’s face it, we all would be devastated if we lost Glowacki.
Five years back, when Miki took over as the Bratva’s UK pakhan after the Albanians slaughtered his parents, we forged an alliance. Janusz Glowacki, the head of the Polish Mafia, had just buried his eldest son, another casualty of the Albanian scum. What began as a pact for vengeance and mutualprotection soon morphed into a bond of brotherhood. Glowacki wasn’t just an ally; he was a good friend and mentor, guiding us younger men through the treacherous underworld. The thought of losing him? It was like losing our anchor.
“How are the ladies?” Miki asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Fine,” I confirmed, leaning against the cold railing. “They’ve no idea we are here for anything other than party planning.”