Little Blue : Ilya - Volkov Bratva Romance

Prologue

Ilya

“He didn’t orchestrate this alone.” I run the clean edge of my shoe over the man’s broken ribs. A hiss of air spills from between his teeth into the ever-present hum of the Los Angeles night. It’s really too bad for him, that when those ribs snapped, they didn’t puncture a lung.

Death would have been quicker and far less painful.

“Bastard,” he wheezes. I dig my toe into the rib he tries to cradle. Anger sparks in his eyes.

“No,” I say again. My face is blank of the disgust I feel for the pile of flesh and bones at my feet. “He doesn’t possess the intelligence to orchestrate such an elaborate plan.”

“Fuck you!” The man shouts. Blood and spit spray onto the asphalt. A drop lands on the glossy black of my shoe.

Like always, my expression is carefully crafted to show no emotion. I am a void.

My eyes drift coolly up from the waste of skin on the asphalt in time to see Misha cock a grin. Where I appear to lack all emotion, Misha wears his grins like fucking armour. “Reeks of Popov to me.”

I agree.I inhale a deep sigh, because I’m supposed to visit my younger brother and his wife while I’m here in L.A. Now, I have to deal with this disloyal scum.

Waste of fucking time.“Take him to the funhouse.”

The man starts to speak.

No, not speak. Beg.

I turn my back as I pull my phone from my pocket, dialing my younger brother, Kane. He answers on the second ring. “You can bring that bottle of red you brought last time.”

I almost grin. Almost. Little bastard. “Give Nevaeh my apologies.”

A beat of silence, then, “You’re not coming.”

I know he can hear the man screaming now as he’s being dragged to the armoured SUV that will take him to my funhouse. To his death.

Why he thought I would go soft on him, I have no idea.

Yes, he’s one of my men. He’s been one of my men long enough to have worked himself into a position of prestige and trust, which makes his betrayal that much worse.

Because of him, I now have a sea-can full of bodies. Some are alive, others are not so lucky.

For this, his punishment will be much slower. More intimate. Agonizing.

Drugs, weapons, money laundering, sure. But I don’t move bodies.

I don’t sell flesh.

I don’t traffic people.

But I know who does.

Ivan Popov has been making moves against my family for some time. I thought I made things clear when I killed his oldest son, and heir. Apparently, I’ll have to cut off the head of the snake to make this particular problem go away.

First, I need to get to the bottom of how he got to one of my men. Again.

“I’m sorry,” I extend the expected to Kane. “Rain check?”

Kane makes a noise, knowing full-well why I won’t be meeting him for dinner. I also won’t have time to meet before I head to New York, to deal with yet another rat.

“Sure. No problem.” He chuckles. “You have fun doing—what you do.”

This time, I do smile. “Count on it, brother.”

I disconnect, sliding the phone into my pocket as I appraise the situation. The people inside the sea-can aren’t screaming, clawing to break free. They never do that, too paralyzed by fear to move. To take the risk of something worse than what they’ve already suffered.

Quiet as they are, their strained sobs flood the port like ghostly whispers on the wings of a sea breeze. It taints the humid, salty-from-the-sea, night, with the poison of dehydrated tears.

I inhale through my nose as I peer in the direction of the sea-can, Misha’s eyes on me. He speaks, “They are mostly women and children.”

“How many are dead?”

“Too many.”

My chest expands with a breath. “Where are they from?”

“Somewhere in Asia, most likely.”

“Give them jobs. Have Tamara find them somewhere to live. Tell her to speak with our contact at immigration. Get the paperwork started.”

Misha nods. “And what about the dead?”

My jaw clenches. There will be no headstones for the dead. “Dispose of them as respectfully as you can.”