Lord Of Vengeance (Bratva Lords #1)
Chapter One
Rodion
The church bell rang, each chime echoing off the ancient walls.
Two doves darted through the tall, stained glass window, their wings flickering in the shafts of muted light.
The burial mass fell silent. Every gaze lifting as the doves circled the lofty ceiling, as if embodying the restless spirits of the two departed souls.
The priest cleared his throat, his face etched with fatigue and his pace stretching longer than necessary.
A fierce itch for a cigar or anything to burn the moment away scratched at me. Beneath my dark suit, my patience wore thin. Business awaited.
The priest continued as he listed the virtues of the deceased. None of it was an exaggeration. My mother’s devotion to the church had been evident for years. Same as my sister’s.
A quick laugh broke the solemnity. Across the aisle, where the Konstantinov Bratva clan sat, Dmitri, my brother, found something entertaining. He adjusted his sunglasses and got up. He squeezed our grandmother’s shoulder, and strode out, his men following.
The absence of Roman, the other brother, and Dmitri’s quiet exit reminded me that we were burying the dead without resolution. We spent months negotiating this burial, yet no justice.
When the priest invited Grandmother to speak, the church grew even quieter as she made her way to the podium. I sighed. She would offer the right words, but not what I wanted to hear. Rising to my feet drew the congregation’s gaze to me. I nodded at Grandma and slipped out.
Outside, the air did nothing to cool the fury simmering under my skin.
Somewhere, their killer walked free. From my jacket pocket, I pulled out a cigar, positioning it between my lips as I reached for my lighter.
I paused upon catching the statue of the Holy Mary watching me.
My irritation swelled. Resigned, I stepped out of her line of sight, flicked the lighter, and took the first burning drag.
The area brimmed with mourners’ cars. My vehicle, as black as night, stood apart, commanding its own space.
Beyond it, a driveway stretched past the chapel, lined with a scatter of cars half-tucked onto the grass.
I leaned against the hood, smoke curling up as I slipped back into memories of the murder.
A man’s voice jarred me from my thoughts, heated and urgent. I tipped my head back, scanning the driveway. A blond man moved fast along the edge, weaving between parked cars as he chased after a woman. Her brown hair bounced with each sharp step.
“Can you stop running for a second and let us talk?” The blond pleaded, but she kept walking.
“Stay away from me.” Her voice was edged with exhaustion. “I meant what I said. It’s over. Stop following me.”
I exhaled another plume of smoke, keeping one eye on their performance. The guy kept trying, edging closer.
“Give me a reason, hey, Just—”
“Stop touching me.” Her voice rang out clearly as she halted. As if fate were toying with me, she stopped right by my car.
“Talk to me,” he insisted.
His desperation was obvious. I glanced over, mildly curious about what could chain him to her.
She wore a fitted red top and a denim skirt that hugged her curves, which likely made him cling to this futile pursuit. Her top left her skin bare in places, catching the last hints of sunlight. The sight alone seemed to amplify his reluctance to let her go. Her face remained turned away.
“It’s over. Lucas, it’s as simple as that. Don’t you get it?” Her voice, low and sweet, was loud enough for him to hear and for me to catch.
“What did I do?”
Her voice hardened as her patience waned. “You had the nerve to show up to my home? What if my parents were there?” She raised her voice, but its tone stayed smooth, almost too refined to reveal the fury simmering beneath. “You’re boring.”
Or maybe she was.
“You never cared about me, Lucas.”
“I don’t?”
Another pull from my cigarette. The show was proving entertaining enough. Better than listening to Grandmother’s speech.
“You never did. Not a single day. Look, I don’t care anymore. It’s over,” she said with finality.
Beyond them, I spotted the statue of Mary, silently witnessing the scene.
“No, wait. You know the reason I showed up. You have been distant, so give me a reason, and I’ll walk away.”
“Oh, you need one?” Her voice dripped with scorn. In my mind, I offered him several, ranging from sheer incompetence to spinelessness. And a touch of desperation.
“Yes,” he replied, hanging on with absurd determination.
“Tell me my favorite color.” She crossed her arms.
“Pink, of course,” he replied, visibly pleased with himself.
I had to stifle a scoff.
She scoffed, a reaction I shared. “And you need a reason? Purple, Lucas. Purple is my favorite color.”
Disbelief flickered through me. If her top wasn’t even her favorite color, she was as dense as he was. She left him there, striding away with an air of finality.
I took another drag, the smoke forming a screen between me and the scene as a figure neared from the distance. Matvet, one of my most trusted men, walked toward me. He was on a phone call, and when he reached me, he hung up.
“I’ve found a lead,” he announced. With those words, hope sparked in my chest. “Marco has a girlfriend.”
Finally, a crack in the shadows that had settled over me. Marco, the slippery bastard with ties to the killer, had vanished like smoke. But his girlfriend opened a whole new approach.
“Change of plans,” I said, relishing the words. “He will come to me.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Get me her name,” I said.
The enemy’s friends, girlfriends, or whatever they called themselves, were all fair game.
Matvet glanced at his wristwatch. “It seems like Roman won’t come.”
Running the Konstantinov Bratva in three states didn’t mean we couldn’t show our respects to the dead. Dmitri had appeared, albeit briefly. However, Roman disappeared on the night of their deaths. Revenge was long overdue.
As I slipped into the driver’s seat, my mind shifted to the image of blood, the only thing that would bring me peace. Seeing red was my favourite sight. But I admit the evening sun, casting a golden light that washed over everything, was a fleeting beauty.