Trust (Mafia Doms #4)

Prologue

ILYA

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” I say coldly.

The man kneeling in front of me shakes his head. “No! Boss, I swear, it wasn’t me! I didn’t… I didn’t do anything!”

The back room of this small gambling hall has a drain in the middle of the floor. It used to be an industrial kitchen, before the restaurant went under and I’d bought the property for cheap.

The drain had been a selling point.

I glance over to Boris, who glares at Artyom with open hatred. “Boris, is that true? Did you make a mistake while investigating?”

Boris straightens his shoulders. “I didn’t. I tracked the cash. I found his accomplices.”

In the grand scheme of things, two hundred thousand missing dollars are nothing.

I earn more than that in a month, usually.

Gambling is a lucrative business, especially here in New Bristol where it’s still illegal. The addicts need bookies to place their bets, and they need secret poker games and underground casinos.

I had worried that when sports betting became widespread that I’d lose business, but all it did was convince more and more people to play with their money.

The ones who weren’t content to lose their money online, but were sure they could make it big if they were playing against a real human, had flocked in.

Artyom tries to get up, but my men shove him back onto the concrete floor. His knees slam loudly against it, and if I had any sympathy left for him, I’d wince.

“Please, Boss! Somebody must be setting me up. One of the others—” Artyom begs.

I get closer and grip his jaw, forcing him to look up at me. “It isn’t even the money,” I say.

Artyom’s eyes widen. “It’s… it’s not?”

I smile, a deep, nasty smile that has never put anyone at ease.

The same smile my father always wore when he did business.

“Boris followed the money. He found your secret account.” I tighten my grip. “Do you know what else he found?”

Artyom swallows hard. “There’s nothing to find,” he whispers, but I can see in his eyes that he knows.

“You’re very familiar with the New Bristol police,” I say. “They like buying you lunches. They’re filling your secret account too.”

“No!” Artyom shouts. He lashes out at me, but my men grab his arms. “I swear, I didn’t do it! It wasn’t me! Maybe Boris—”

“I would never consort with those pigs,” Boris says, spitting on the ground for good measure. “I would never betray Ilya.”

And that’s what this is all about.

Betrayal.

Artyom was supposed to be one of my closest friends.

Instead, I discover that he’s been selling me out to the cops. No wonder I’ve been having trouble with some of the other locations. No wonder so many of my underlings have gotten arrested.

“How much did they pay you?” I ask, pressing a foot against his groin. “What was the cost of our friendship?”

Artyom whimpers and shakes his head. “I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t.”

I glance over at Boris.

“They transferred five hundred dollars to him last time,” Boris says.

I let out a harsh laugh. “Five hundred? What a cheap whore you are, Artyom. You valued your life so little? You were willing to destroy yourself for just five hundred dollars?”

And the two hundred thousand he’d been skimming from my business.

I push against Artyom’s groin one more time before stepping back. I see the way he sighs in relief.

That’s a bit premature.

I take my black leather gloves out of my pocket. Everyone in the room stops moving.

They all know what it means when I take out the gloves.

“Please, please, Ilya, I swear, I wasn’t… I didn’t tell them anything useful!” Artyom shouts. “Nothing that could hurt you directly!”

I sigh and wrap my hand around Artyom’s throat. “I should believe you now? After you’ve already sold me out?”

I draw my other hand back and slam my fist into Artyom’s face. He cries out, the impact echoing in the room.

My men hold Artyom in place as I punch again.

And again.

And again.

Every blow rings out. Teeth go flying. Artyom’s eyes swell shut, and he cries and begs. His words become incoherent, a mess of Russian and English, but they don’t matter.

I can’t forgive a man who betrays me.

If I let him go—if I could trust him enough to let him go with this violent warning—my men wouldn’t respect me.

Violence is baked into this world.

Betrayal is met with death.

I’d learned that early on.

My father had made me watch when he beat the men who betrayed him.

My father had made me watch as he beat my mother for disappointing him.

This is all I am.

An extension of his will, long after he’s died.

The blood stains my gloves. Drops of it land on my face and beard and suit.

Yet I keep beating Artyom until there are no more gasps, no more cries.

Until his body goes completely limp.

My men release him, and he drops to the floor. His blood trickles into the drain.

I peel my gloves off. “Clean this mess up,” I order.

“Yes, Boss,” Boris says.

I glance down at Artyom’s corpse.

This didn’t bring me satisfaction.

This didn’t make me feel powerful.

All I feel is disgust.

Five years since I left Russia, and it’s still inside me, guiding my movements and dictating how I must act.

But this is how the world is. There is no place for softness, or weakness.

There is no place for forgiveness.

After all, if I forgive the wrong person, I’d be the one lying face down with my blood dripping into a drain in the floor.