Hunt the Villain (Villain #2)

Chapter 1

VAUGHN

AGE FIFTEEN

It’s hate at first sight.

For this setting.

For these people.

For the entire charade, really.

I truly believe this is a waste of time, and I would like to leave immediately if possible. Please and thank you.

Unfortunately, that’s not something Dad would appreciate, especially considering his parting words this morning.

You’re my pride, Vaughn. You go out there and show them what the New York Bratva are made of.

So here I am. In this absolute clusterfuck of a place, exchanging pleasantries and empty words with one of the mentors overlooking this mess.

Sorry, it’s called a summer camp.

The Adirondack Mountains aren’t exactly my ideal location to spend the summer.

Usually, I’d be off to Russia to stay with my maternal uncles and cousins for some intense training or somewhere in the Mediterranean soaking up some sun.

Not this year, obviously, as I have to spend time in the mountains in what’s being described as a “historical” moment for the New York and Chicago Bratvas.

Also known as the strongest branches of the Russian mafia in the States.

As the Pakhan’s son, it’s my duty to represent my family at this camp. The mountain is supposed to be a middle-ground location, picked by both sides.

Apparently, our “mentors” for these hellish summer months are older people who are trusted by my dad and the Chicago Bratva leader since they served both sides. They’re “pure” Russian, as the house manager who’s now leading me to my room insisted.

Aside from the security surrounding the cottage-turned-dorm with its wooden walls and outdated common area, we’re not allowed personal guards or phones, and there’s no electricity after dark.

It’s a form of training—both physical and mental. A way to force us into relying on one another, to scrape at decades of rivalry that probably took root back in Mother Russia before my father even existed.

An old Russian ballad drifts through the halls from an ancient radio system, the melody warped by age. The house manager’s voice threads over it, polished and deliberate, speaking about the facilities and the “opportunities” this place offers.

While his refined Russian seeps into the air, my attention catches on the corners, the hairline cracks in the untreated wood…and then I see them. Small blinking cameras, half hidden.

Of course.

Doesn’t matter that Dad sent me here—neither he nor the leader of the Chicago Bratva trusts the other side. And with their heirs shoved into cohabitation, they’d both want full access to whatever happens here.

I let my gaze slide over the thick slabs of timber making up the walls, the clean but worn carpets dulled by years of footsteps, the rural paintings in faded gold frames, showing a romanticized version of eighteenth-century Russian countryside.

The windows capture my interest next. Unlike the scaled-down comforts of the cottage, they’re fitted with bulletproof glass. Too narrow for anyone to climb through—not that anyone could reach this place without an army.

The camp squats on an off-limits peak, far from any trace of human life, surrounded only by towering pines and an unbroken sky.

I can already tell this summer will be long.

And painfully boring.

Outside the large balcony doors, the grounds sprawl down below, with soldiers patrolling from both sides. I can tell they’re as wary as the rest of us, considering how each group keeps to half of the terrain.

There will be a lot of testosterone wars this not-so-beautiful summer.

I can’t wait for the hassle to be over.

In the meantime, I need to study the other side. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my parents, it’s to always be prepared.

Whether this truce proves to be lucrative or not doesn’t matter. The Chicago Bratva will always be a thorn in our side for as long as I live, just like they’ve been in Dad’s and the Pakhans’ who ruled before him.

As much as I loathe this whole charade, I can’t deny that it’s realistically my only chance to get close to them and study their tactics.

While the house manager explains the facilities, I keep my attention on their men through the doors. All dressed in full-black combat gear, not suits like our side. While everyone is carrying precision rifles, theirs seem more sophisticated.

I need to figure out their weapon supplier.

The bald-headed one with a scorpion tattooed on the side of his head seems to be the leader, considering how the others stand behind him.

Hmm.

I tilt my head to the side to watch him closely. Blond beard, taller than average. Bulky, too. Scarred hands. Army background? No. Prison?

How do I find out more about him without garnering suspicion? Should I ask a guard to spy on them?

Dad specifically told me not to go into investigative mode and just enjoy this camp, but that’s simply impossible.

However, the guards are under clear orders from Dad and won’t listen to my instructions if I choose to infiltrate the other side.

I need to figure out a different method—

My feet still when a black ball rolls into view, stopping dead in the middle of the invisible line dividing our side from the Chicago Bratva’s. The patrolling guards freeze mid-step, rifles snapping up, barrels tracking the harmless-looking object as it rocks lazily on the dirt.

Bang!

The blast rips through the stillness, echoing off the wooden walls, rattling the air. I move before thought can catch up, striding toward the balcony, my hand sliding to the familiar weight at my waistband. My fingers graze cold steel, but I stop short of drawing.

I shove open the balcony door and am met with a burst of laughter—raw, unbothered, and out of place in the charged quiet that follows an explosion. A guy about my age darts out from behind a massive oak, a small wired device clutched in his hand.

His white sleeveless shirt, smudged with dirt and torn at the edges, has a ragged hole in the side, and his jeans are ripped at the knees.

His dark hair is a mess of waves falling over his forehead, and his skin is marred with lacerations—on his elbow, his cheek, his hands.

Like he rolled down the mountain. Or fought a bear and half won.

“Yulik!” The bark comes from the bald-headed leader.

A nerve twitches in his temple, the skin flushing red as his glare locks on the guy he called by the diminutive of his name.

Yulik.

Yulian Dimitriev.

I’ve heard the stories about the infamous son of Yaroslav Dimitriev. Didn’t expect him to look like the human embodiment of a migraine.

“Sick new device, right?” His laugh—split by a busted lip—cuts through the air, sounding unfazed by the rifles still aimed in his general direction. “I came up with it. Cy helped a little.”

“A lot.” Another guy leans against the tree, lazily chewing a toothpick.

I narrow my gaze.

I didn’t hear anything about a Cy or even a Cyrus joining this camp. He wasn’t on any list from their side. Which makes him something I don’t like—

A variable.

Scorpion Tattoo Man’s voice hardens, dripping with irritation. “We were seconds away from shooting at each other. Do you realize how reckless that was?”

My thoughts match his word for word. In a place that’s strung tight over a fragile truce, his stunt wasn’t just reckless—it was a spark in a room full of gunpowder. All it would’ve taken was one twitch of a finger, and we’d be stacking bodies.

“Nah.” Yulian shrugs, his voice light, almost mocking. “No one’s stupid enough to be the first to pull the trigger and blow up this peace.” His grin widens as he calls out, “Cy! Looks hot as fuck!”

A black hole—that’s what looks hot as fuck to this lunatic.

Might call my dad and tell him we’re done here, and we should wrap it up.

“Don’t mind Yulian.” The house manager who’s standing in the doorway tries to smooth things over, his tone apologetic. “He’s…” He hesitates, his face tinting red before he finishes, “Never mind. He enjoys defying logic and gravity for some reason.”

“For some reason,” I echo, not caring what that might be.

“You should go change before we meet the New York kids,” Cy says to Yulian.

The latter glances at himself—dirt, blood, smudges of black powder staining his fingers—then smirks. “I’m perfectly presentable.”

The sound I make isn’t quite a laugh. More like a scoff edged with disgust. It ripples through the air loudly enough for both Cyrus and the guards to look up.

Yulian’s head lifts last.

He stares up at me, and I look down from the balcony, standing taller because I was taught to always present myself as the most powerful from the get-go.

The most dominant.

Yulian’s lips curve and it’s lopsided, as if he’s intrigued. Maybe entertained.

By what?

He holds my gaze, and I stare square into his creepy eyes. One is pale blue, and the other is dark brown, like a drop of ocean in the middle of a forest. A touch of mud on ice.

It’s disturbing.

But somehow…slightly riveting. I’ve never seen such a mismatch before.

Of course, someone like him would be a paradox of epic proportions. I’ve done enough research on Yulian Dimitriev to know what I’m dealing with, and he seems to be an absolute wreck of a person in every sense of the word.

He runs toward the cottage at full speed, and I expect him to come inside, so I get ready to leave, which will force him to follow me around, begging for scraps of my attention.

Because that’s how it’ll be at this summer camp. I don’t care that he’s a year older than me; I’m the one who’ll dominate this relationship.

Instead of coming inside, Yulian grips the wooden pillars, uses them for balance, and then leaps and grabs the railing of the balcony, pulls himself up with impressive strength, and jumps directly into my space.

I have to step back so he doesn’t crash into me and stain my perfectly clean clothes with all that grime.

To my dismay, up close, this dirty heathen is slightly taller than me, but we’re about the same build, though his shoulders are wider. His face is less angular than mine, more square and defined.