Vitaly (Las Vegas Petrov Bratva #3)

3. Mila

3

MILA

M y mother used to tell me she had eyes in the back of her head.

I’m sure every mother has said that. But mine? She meant it. Except not just in her head, in the walls. In invisible drones that followed my brothers and me around as school children, monitoring us breaking our toys or climbing the neighbors’ fences. My mother saw all. As a little girl, I wondered how it could be possible, how she could truly see everything.

Now as I walk down one of the most dangerous streets in Las Vegas at a quarter to midnight, my ears picking up every little sound, my neck hairs buzzing at the slightest shift behind me, it’s obvious. It wasn’t sight that revealed all. It was intuition. She was a mama bear, and we were her cubs. Her ears were always sensitive, her neck always buzzing.

Tonight, the envelope I’ll be securing at the Fun House is my cub. And I am its mama.

I’m not letting Nikita down.

I’m not letting myself down.

Shuffling sounds from an alley as I pass, and I instinctively flick the blade tucked inside my sleeve halfway into my palm, never looking that way. I don’t slow my gait, and I don’t let my shoulders hang. If somebody tries to mug me tonight, they’re the ones who should be afraid.

When I reach the dark stairs of the Fun House, I give a quick survey of the street, spotting only a few crackheads up the road paying no attention to me. I descend to the unmarked door. After five kicks of my foot, a metal slot lifts to reveal the bushy eyebrows of a man, his irises peeking through the opening.

“We don’t want any Girl Scout cookies,” he chides in a gravelly voice like he’s never gone a day without a cigarette since he was ten.

I raise my chin, clasping my hands behind my back and shimmying the blade up my sleeve. “I’m here on behalf of Nikita Petrov. I believe you have something of his.”

The man cackles, and I’m lucky there’s a door between us because his lungs don’t agree with the laugh. He hacks through a fit of coughs before finally getting his breathing under control.

“Petrov sent a bitch to do the pickup? Get the fuck out of here.”

My lips purse, but I’m not surprised by this. I came prepared.

I move my hair over my shoulder and turn to reveal the tattoo behind my ear. It’s simple. A serpent with Petrov etched into its belly. But it’s powerful. It shows my devotion to my Pakhan, and to some, perhaps it’s a symbol of ownership. Either way, if I belong to Nikita, emotionally or physically, I am not to be fucked with by the likes of a low-level babysitter such as this man.

“Make your call if you must, but I have a schedule to keep,” I say. “You don’t want to keep the Pakhan waiting.”

It’s a lie, of course. Nikita is probably laughing at me, in his bed with another woman, pondering how I’ll ever get home. He doesn’t give a shit about this money. He cares more about watching me fail. About putting me in my place.

Bushy Eyebrows grunts before letting the metal slot slam shut. Three locks disengage before the door creaks open, and I step inside.

The place is a dump, as expected. Nothing but dirty white tile that leads down a hall to what must be the “fun” part of Fun House. Tacky beaded curtains hang over the entrance to block my view but do nothing to mute the occasional thump or distant moan.

Thank fuck. Thank fuck I was born an Alekseev. My family name means little here. In fact, Nikita seems to enjoy spitting on it more than anything else.

But in Russia, before Vitaly Petrov ruined my family, it meant something. And in this moment more than ever, I’m grateful for that. Because if I’d been made an actual whore…

“Here,” Eyebrows grunts from his little desk by the door.

I unclasp my hands to take the envelope from him. When I open it, he scoffs.

“It’s all there.”

I glance up from the cash bulging the manilla envelope.

He rolls his eyes. “I might short you, but I wouldn’t short the Pakhan. We’re all good. You can go.”

I take a moment to consider him before closing the envelope and tucking it into my inside jacket pocket. Eyebrows stares pointedly at the purse hanging off my shoulder but doesn’t voice the question.

As if I would ever be stupid enough to carry Nikita’s money in a purse . In Naked City. At midnight.

I throw my hair over my shoulders to let it rain down my back then walk out the door with my pulse slightly higher than when I went in.

Step one was a success. Now I just have to get to the warehouse to drop the cash off. No one in their right mind inside the Bratva would ever help me prove Nikita wrong, so that means I really do have to take the bus then walk another two miles, but… Once I’m out of Naked City, the rest should be cake.

Though several blocks from the bus stop, I walk down the sidewalk with a confident gait, not once taking my eyes off my destination. From my periphery, I catch the eyes of the alley cats and a random guy strutting by himself on the other side of the street.

A few cars pass, and when the third slows, I jerk my knife from my sleeve.

“Hey shawty, you need a ride? That ass looks hot, but you look cold.” The friend driving laughs, but when I don’t respond, the guy tosses a beer bottle that shatters a foot by my feet, splashing my suede boots with cheap beer and glass.

I grind to a halt and slowly turn that way, my eyes constricted, the knife tightly in my grasp.

“Stuck up, bitch!” the man yells, leaning halfway out his window as his friend speeds away.

There’s a moment when I almost throw the knife. I’ve been practicing; I know I could hit him. People have died for lesser crimes than being a worthless human being.

But I might need the blade. So as the car disappears, I take a moment to collect myself, breathing deeply through my nostrils as I uselessly try to shake beer off my shoes.

I step over the glass and carry on, my feet moving me a little faster toward my destination.

But then, of course, there’s another obstacle.

A sharp whistle comes from behind me. I grind my teeth but don’t look, moving faster toward the bus stop as if I won’t just have to wait for the bus anyway. Whatever puts more distance between me and the never-ending string of creeps as quickly as possible.

Their steps seem to grow closer, no matter how long I make my strides, so eventually, I can’t help but look over my shoulder. There are four of them, twenty or so yards behind me, and they’re walking fast . With a purpose.

Toward me.

Facing forward, I pull the purse I brought for this exact scenario off my shoulder and let it drop to the sidewalk, a sort of peace offering for the predators. There’s three hundred bucks in there, which I’m considering the price of doing business as a woman. This time. Next time, Nikita will get me a driver, and none of this will be necessary.

At least two of them cackle at my attempt at peace. A few moments later, one shouts with a Russian accent that slows my steps.

“You dropped this.”

A silver Escalade turns the corner at the light up ahead. It crawls toward us before pulling over and effectively boxing me in. No one jumps out of the vehicle, but if I had to guess, I’d say if I tried to run in that direction, they’d be there to grab me.

“ Mi-la ,” an amused voice singsongs behind me.

Blood whooshes through my ears, and for the very first time tonight, I feel a trickle of fear.

Not for my life. I’m an Alekseev; I could never fear for my life. But I do fear failure.

And Nikita didn’t just set me up to fail. He sent his henchmen to ensure it. I was never playing his game. I was never playing any game at all. I was walking into his punishment.

I should’ve seen this coming.

I hate myself for not seeing this coming.

And I hate myself for feeling sick about it.

My gut feels like it’s been punched, and something lodges into my windpipe, but it’s just as well. I don’t have anything to say to these men anyway.

I turn, the blade firmly in my grasp. I lock eyes with the man who takes the lead as they close in on me.

“Hey, Mila,” the one in the lead says, revealing a silver tooth when he smiles. I’ve never met him, which means he’s either a soldier or an associate. Disposable.

And Nikita knows that.

The vice that’s wrapped around my heart eases ever so slightly. Maybe this is the test. Who cares about picking up some package? This , being able to defend myself, defend the Bratva , is the true mark of worthiness.

Maybe he believes I’ll fail. But maybe he hopes I won’t. Maybe he’s giving me my shot after all.

When the one in the middle reaches out to grab me, I twist to the side while yanking his arm and crashing my weight down on his elbow, popping it out of place. It takes the other men a second to react as he screams, but by the time they can think to do something, my foot is connecting with the man on my right’s crotch. And he’s the lucky one.

A hand grabs my shoulder, and as I’m whipped around, I shove the blade into the throat of a beanie-wearing douchebag whose eyes bug out of his skull in shock. I rip it from his neck and go to stab the remaining man, but he catches my wrist and uses the advantage his six three frame has to shove me to the ground.

A man rushes from the SUV as Tall Guy kicks my ribs. I roll into a ball as I cringe and gasp.

“ Suka !” he growls, kicking me in rapid succession until it feels impossible for me to breathe.

“Come on, get the bodies. We can fuck this bitch up at the house,” the new guy says, taking me under my arms and dragging me toward the SUV. Breaths wheeze in and out my lungs while I gasp and roll my head side to side.

A ripple of shame runs through me that hurts worse than the broken ribs. A few kicks was all it took to have me defeated like this.

But I can’t be defeated. Not yet.

Because I’m from this world, and I know that what happens after I get into the SUV is ten times worse than dying on this street.

I let him drag me while focusing on regaining my strength. They have the advantage over me with their size, so trying to rip out of his hold isn’t going to work.

He opens the back door of the SUV then hauls me to my feet. While his head is in the door, I summon a burst of energy to grab the handle and yank the door as hard as I can, slamming the metal against his skull.

“Fuck!” he roars as I shove him to the ground then take off into the alley, my arm cradling my ribs.

What I hoped would be a valiant escape winds up feeling more like a hopeless attempt with how badly my pain slows me down. I try to fight through it, try to pretend it isn’t there, but every breath, every exertion, threatens to yank me to the ground. I only make it halfway through the alley before the tall guy tackles me onto the cold, unforgiving concrete.

“You like to fight, suka ?” he rasps, flipping me over and pinning my arms to the ground. His weight on my ribs makes me scream out, but he only laughs and spits on my cheek.

“I didn’t want to kill you, suka . But now? Now I’m going to enjoy it.” His hand wraps around my neck and squeezes until my lungs are no longer at odds with my ribs.

I kick limply at air while praying he’ll let go so I can give him my last words. My vision blurs. I’m almost out of time.

Tell Papa I’m sorry I failed him .

The man wouldn’t care. He’d probably laugh. He’s street scum. He doesn’t understand honor, glory.

He doesn’t understand the shame my death will bring to my family. The status we will lose without me there to whisper in Nikita’s ear why my father should remain a trusted lieutenant.

My eyes water, blurring my murderer’s image.

And then a gun fires.

Tall Guy’s eyes widen before the life leaves them, his loosening grip granting me my first breath. I cough and gasp as his heavy weight falls on me, crushing me until someone rolls him off.

I blink at the hooded figure, my vision still blurry, my throat raw. For several moments, I think it must be one of the other men, but none were wearing a hood, and none had the same tall, muscular frame. His face is shadowed, so I can’t see much of him. When his hand reaches for me to take, I start to question if he’s some strange Las Vegas superhero. Like I just entered a comic book.

What is he, a vigilante? Does he have any idea who he just fucked with?

They’ll kill him for this.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, stretching his palm toward me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I look between his hand and face then shake my head. “Just go,” I squeak out, my throat sore. I try to swallow past the pain as I wave the man off.

You don’t know what you just did. They’re going to come for you.

I want to say the words, but every breath comes as a wheeze, leaving me wondering if I punctured a lung. It could be too late to save me anyway. I can barely speak.

“ Please ,” I manage. “ Go .”

He bends, revealing just a sliver of his face in the sparse moonlight. He has a strong jaw. A sharp nose. A tiny cleft in his chin.

I think maybe he’ll try to argue, to continue with his vigilante duties, so when he pulls a needle from his pocket, my jaw drops. I can barely shape my lips to protest before my arms are

pinned. He inserts the needle into my neck.

I lay staring at the stranger, helpless and broken as he leans in close to smooth his palms over my eyelids. “Go to sleep, Mila. You’ll feel better soon.”