The Russian’s Bought Bride (Lukov Bratva #6)

Chapter 1 - Nikolai

Rushing jobs like this isn’t something I can afford to do. If I let myself get sloppy, then the whole thing falls apart.

Patience both keeps me alive and stops mistakes from bleeding into places they shouldn’t be, and right now, patience is the only thing standing between me and tearing this operation apart too soon.

Sitting in the dark interior of my car with the engine off and windows cracked just enough to let in the dry Vegas night, I stare at the building across the street like I have been for at least an hour now.

It looks like any other private medical building with sleek glass, clear signage, and the kind of vibe that screams safe and sanitary. There are no red flags and no reason to question it, which is exactly the point.

The owners don’t openly advertise what they do, and they don’t need to.

Word travels differently in these circles, where they target the desperate and those willing to believe the right operation will save someone they love.

Regardless of how much money it costs or the risks they’re forced to face, if it means one more year, or one more miracle that will change everything for these people, then they’ll take it.

These bastards sell hope dressed up as science through experimental procedures and revolutionary treatments. Their doctors are supposed to be the best of the best, and they apparently work with only the brightest minds.

And it’s all bullshit.

I’ve been watching them for three months now, which has been long enough to track routines, staff rotations, delivery schedules, and everything else. Long enough to confirm what my contact hinted at:

People go in, and they’re lucky if they ever come out again.

Some have the stupid luck that earns their way out, given how too many failed procedures wouldn’t look good for them, but for the most part, the ‘life-saving’ surgeries are a one-way ticket to the next life.

The first time I realized what they were doing, I almost moved too fast and dragged out the closest person to start breaking bones until I got answers, but I had the sense to know that isn’t how you dismantle something as deep as this.

I have to hit it from the inside, and now, I’m closer than I’ve ever been.

My burner phone buzzes briefly in the cupholder, and I glance at the screen, catching a text from the intermediary I’ve been dealing with.

Meeting confirmed.

It’s brief, simple, and all I need to know.

Finally…after weeks of building this identity with the right credentials and connections, I managed to pass as a credible buyer.

Tomorrow, I’ll step inside as more than just a silent observer. I’ll get my proof, and once I have records of every transaction and anything related to the organs they’ve been harvesting, it’s over.

Anyone making money off these poor people will feel it. Right now, they think they’re untouchable, but that’s far from the truth.

Something clenches in my chest at the thought of what this all means, and how all of this progress will amount to something after all.

Despite being caught up in all of this, my siblings don’t even know. I’ve kept this buried to not risk any kind of interference, just like all the other networks I’ve toppled over the years.

It’s not that I don’t trust my brothers, but this is something I’ve embarked on solo, and I don’t want it crossing over with the family business. If something were to ever go wrong, the rest could suffer, and I can’t let that happen.

Shifting in my seat, I glance over at the folder sitting on the passenger seat, full of physical copies of sensitive materials, ranging from profiles of patients, families, and all their medical records. Victims, really.

I don’t trust keeping anything digital—not when these pricks shouldn’t have it in the first place.

And I shouldn’t be looking deeper than necessary, since that’s how all objectivity gets lost, but I reach for the folder and open it anyway.

The name at the top is familiar now, given how I’ve seen it in various logs and the extensive information the organizers have on him.

Arthur Young…a patient diagnosed with kidney failure scheduled for surgery tomorrow to get a synthetic replacement, so they claim. In reality, they’re going to cut him open and take whatever they can sell. Just because one part quits working doesn’t mean the rest aren’t viable.

Flipping through the pages of medical history, financial records, and signed consent forms designed to confuse and trap, I clench my jaw.

Arthur surely knew it was risky, but he thought it was real. He still does, and that’s exactly how they get them.

Rather than stupidity and ignorance, they exploit fear and hope and don’t see a single problem with it.

I almost skip over a photograph clipped to the file given to me by one of my associates, but I pull it free instead.

Packed closely within the frame is who I assume is Arthur, and beside him is a younger woman with her arm looped through his.

She’s smiling wide and genuine in a way that softens her face, with blue eyes that catch my attention, and a bright kind of joy etched into her features that doesn’t belong in a file like this. She has to be in her early twenties.

Glancing down at the information, I catch a name.

Danielle Young. His daughter.

Staring at the picture of the two of them, apparently taken before his sickness developed, I hesitate.

I don’t know her, and by all means, she’s just another name connected to the case, caught up in a scheme. Just another person who’s bound to get hurt.

There’s nothing extraordinary about this picture or the two of them. It’s just a moment captured before everything goes to hell, and before she’s meant to lose him.

I know what that feels like, and I’ve clung to it ever since I started chasing after scumbags like Doctor Volodin.

My chest aches at the thought of this woman having to experience a similar thing, and I tuck the photo back inside the file before dropping it on the seat harder than necessary.

It doesn’t matter…it can’t.

I’ve seen worse than this. People get hurt in my world all the time, and I don’t get to stop and dwell on each one every time it happens.

Still, I see her in my mind even while the picture is hidden away, and this is exactly why I don’t normally dig into the personal side of things. It blurs lines and makes my job more complicated than necessary.

Her father will be the one on the table, not her. Maybe that should be a bit of comfort, but it isn’t when she’ll have to pick up the pieces after the fact.

Leaning back, I close my eyes and scrub a hand down my face, forcing my mind back where it belongs.

Tomorrow night is when I’ll strike. Once I’m inside playing my role and asking the right questions, I’ll get them comfortable enough to show me what they’re really working with.

People like them always want to impress a potential buyer, but they’ll slip, and I’ll make sure of it.

When they do, they’ll be done.

Another buzz comes from the cupholder, but from my real phone this time, and I catch Mikhail’s name on the ID and sigh.

Of course, he’s here to remind me of my usual obligations.

Letting it ring once more, I pick it up and shift my tone to a more neutral one, as he would expect. “Yeah?”

“You disappear off the face of the earth all day, and that’s all I get?” He returns, voice edged with irritation veiled by teasing.

“I’m working.”

“You’re always working,” he murmurs. “On what is the question.”

I shift in my seat a bit, careful not to make too much noise. “If you’re calling to micromanage me, you picked a bad time.”

“Apparently,” he says with a quiet, knowing scoff. Then he sighs. “The shipment I’ve been watching got delayed in Germany. The port’s backed up, and customs decided they suddenly care about paperwork.”

Mikhail handles logistics for the family, and if something moves, be it money, product, or people, it goes through him first. Whatever else Roman doesn’t feel like handling gets passed to him.

He thrives on control and everything running like a machine.

That means delays are the bane of his existence.

“You don’t need me to handle that,” I tell him, lifting a brow. “That’s a Mikhail job.”

“I know,” he mutters. “But Roman’s already on my case about it, and I’d rather share the agony than carry it alone.”

I huff out an amused breath. “So you called because you’re lonely and feeling the heat.”

“What, I can’t vent to my brother?”

“Not when your brother is busy.”

To that, Mikhail forces out a vaguely annoyed breath, and I can almost hear him weighing whether to push further. Finally, he asks, “You in the city?”

“I sure am.”

“Then maybe show your face,” he says. “It’d be nice if our brother remembered he’s part of this family.”

Rather than suspicion, I only find expectation and loyalty—the thing I’m quietly breaking every time I pick up that other phone.

“No need for dramatics. I’ll come by later,” I say, because it’s easier than arguing.

“You better,” Mikhail replies. “And don’t start something I have to clean up.”

A faint chuckle escapes me, not entirely trusting myself to make any more promises. “When have I ever done that?”

He snorts. “You want a comprehensive list?”

“Maybe another time,” I tell him, already pulling the phone away from my ear. “Deal with the shipment.”

I hang up before he can respond, and silence settles back into the car. It feels heavier now, making the two worlds I exist in with two versions of myself very apparent.

In one, I’m exactly what they think I am. A Lukov enforcer, and the one they send when things need to be handled up close without hesitation.

In the other…I’m something else. Still as willing to get violent and just as dangerous, but pointed in a different direction, and focused on a different goal.

If they knew what I was doing and just how deep I’ve gone without telling them, I wouldn’t just be dealing with their anger. It would be a kind of betrayal, given the nature of it all.

One wrong move could implicate them all, and that’s the last thing I want.

Staring out at the clinic again, I pull in a deep breath.

If they did find out somehow, I don’t know what they would say, or if they’d even understand, but I can’t let that stop me.

This is about people like Arthur Young and everyone else who don’t have armies behind them. Who don’t have the kind of power that can protect them from the worst of the worst.

People like Danielle.

For a moment, I consider picking up the folder again before I catch myself and pull away.

Focus, Nikolai.

I don’t need to know her, and I don’t need to care about her beyond what’s necessary to finish this.

But a quiet voice in the back of my head doesn’t quite agree, almost like it’s telling me, you already do.

Ignoring it for now, I try to put my mind back on the right track.

Tomorrow night, I’ll walk into that building as a buyer, shake some hands, and let them think I’m just another man looking to profit off desperation.

When they show me what they’re really selling, I’ll end them.

Not just the surgeons or the front-facing staff, but all of it.

I’ll leave nothing left to grow from it again.

I glance at the time, catching how late it is.

I should leave to get some rest and prepare, but I sit a moment longer, watching the lights flicker behind the glass and picturing the rooms inside. As clear as day, I see the operating tables, the false promises, and the look of hope on a young woman’s face as her dad is wheeled inside.

My fingers curl against the steering wheel, making my knuckles turn white.

One night.

That’s how long Arthur Young has before he’s taken away for good.