Page 173 of Hate to Love You
While I am irritated that men I’ve trained and mentored keep finding their way to the morgue, I don’t value my men as much as some Dons value theirs.
But I don’t operate the same way most Dons do.
My father taught me from a young age that power resides in fear, and that having my men fear me, and the consequences of disappointing or angering me was far more effective than trying to earn their love.
Why your men respect you isn’t as important as the fact that they do in fact respect you.
The loyalties and love of men are easily influenced, and can be easily swayed, especially where power and money are concerned. Should a new opportunity arise, or someone promising them more than I’m willing to offer, they could be tempted to betray me.
However, their fear keeps them tethered to me at the hip. Or the fear of what could happen to their loved ones.
A lot of my men have relatives back in Russia that they send money home to every month. Should they leave, the payments I make to keep their kin above water would stop. And should they fuck up, well, the people they love might just go missing.
And then there’s my system.
Unlike Jaxon Pace, who is land-locked and therefore chooses to outsource trained professionals from all over the world, I prefer to work with what I’ve got. And in an international melting pot like New York City, I have one thing in abundance: people.
With over eight million residents, NYC is inundated with potential recruits, and that’s not even counting the sixty-million visitors a year. I decided to work with the system, not against it.
Over the last decade, I’ve spent a lot of time building a team of people who build people.
It means that I could take any man off the street, and within a matter of weeks, turn him from a raw recruit to a ruthless trained killer. It also means that my men constantly seek my approval, and aim to perform every task assigned to them to the very best of their ability…because they know what’s at stake if they disappoint me.
They know they are all replaceable.
Yes, I should perhaps be pissed that my foxy brunette is killing my men. And perhaps I should confront her, and even punish her for it.
But I won’t.
Because while my men are replaceable, Abigail Wayne is not. And she’s worth a hundred of them.
And as I stand in the mirror, buttoning the dress shirt on my tux, preparing for my date with a potential serial killer, I can’t fight the smirk that is tugging at my lips.
Of course, it would be her.
I’ve avoided relationships because of the nature of what I do, and I never thought a woman would be able to even face my darkness, let alone wrestle my demons. Because no woman I’ve ever met has been able to keep up with me.
Until her.
And Abby might just have bigger balls than all of my men combined.
Every day she works a stone’s throw from the most dangerous man in New York City and shows absolutely no fear. No matter how terrifying, arrogant, or downright unbearable he can be, she always stands her ground, and even defies him whenever she feels like it. What’s more, she’s systematically taking out his trusted men…right under his nose.
Well, technically, I don’t know that for certain yet.
The deaths of Igor, Boris, Jacques, and Noah certainly follow the same pattern and they’ve all had direct contact with Abby just before they kicked the bucket.
But I still don’t have any conclusive proof.
And a part of me wants to see her doing it.
No, I need to see her doing it.
So, instead of retaliating, I will wait for my curious little fox to fall into my trap…because then she will be mine forever.
It’s my own fault.
I should’ve known better than to tell a woman what to wear. Or more specifically what not to wear.