His Wicked Persuasion (Bratva Brotherhood #4)

Chapter 1

Vanya

Classical Russian music drifts from my vehicle’s cracked windows as I pull into the parking lot of St. Augustine Rare Books and Manuscripts Library. A handful of cars sit scattered across the asphalt. No one’s here, however, to notice the soundtrack I picked for the man I’m pretending to be today.

A rising researcher, scholar, and professor of Russian literature. Outwardly, I’m not too different from the real me, Vanya Orlov, fixer for the Kozlov Bratva.

I spent the past two weeks in the area, scoping things out and getting my bearings. This little village is a far cry from Chicago, but I go where I’m sent and do what’s required.

I climb out of my black Bentley and eye the entrance.

Concrete steps lead to massive bronze-plated doors.

Old wax and even older money waft from the building’s thick grayish white bricks.

Considering the tree-lined grounds and the desolate location, this place seems more like a stone castle tucked away in the woods than a library on the outskirts of the city.

Or maybe a mausoleum.

My Italian leather shoes and bespoke charcoal gray suit fit the setting, if not precisely the persona I’m going for. Researchers aren’t known for their attractive qualities and designer clothes, but I’m not about to show up dressed like a vagabond.

Looking good is an asset when you’re hunting for information, regardless of whether you’re cracking a safe or taking out a target.

Today, I’m seeking a book.

A few weeks ago, in the tech millionaire Richard Hearst’s mansion, my fellow enforcer Kirill Khitrenko found a package in the safe that once belonged to the now deceased Alistair Thorne, an investigative journalist who died on Isla de Huesos fifteen years ago.

Inside the box, we discovered an aerial photo of the island, along with a sheet of paper bearing two leads.

St. Augustine Rare Books and Manuscripts Library.

“The greedy tsar found only ice in his hands.”

This is the strangest assignment Roman Kozlov, our Pakhan, has ever given me.

Granted, the death of his nephew MJ—which prompted MJ’s brother, Alexei, to start investigating—kicked off these oddities.

Someone’s messing with us—maybe targeting all of us, maybe just Roman—by leaving cryptic clues that only unveil more cryptic clues.

As I study the building again, three words come to mind. Large. Ornate. Presumptuous. Then again, what do I know about library standards?

This isn’t exactly my scene.

The structure looms against the sky, all heavy stone and sealed windows. I grab the handle and pull, but the door doesn’t budge.

Suspicion trickles up my spine. Locked? At this hour? I search for a sign that says Push.

Nope. Definitely a pull door. Peeking through the glass, I spot a floor mat, a dark wooden umbrella stand with coat hooks, and another door beyond the vestibule.

I try again, yanking harder.

Still nothing.

The gleam of a buzzer mounted beside the door frame catches my eye. I press and hold the button for several seconds. I didn’t drive over two hundred miles and spend a couple weeks in the area just to window shop.

A woman’s crisp voice slices through static. “The library is closed for lunch. Please return at two o’clock.”

No greeting or apology. Just dismissal.

I check my watch and find it’s one in the afternoon. Who takes a lunch break that closes the whole damn site? And for an hour, no less.

I soften my voice, infusing my tone with the charm that always entices women to comply. “I have a simple question about a book. Could you possibly—”

“Two o’clock.” The voice comes out even colder than before. A decisive click severs the connection.

I exhale a frustrated breath and shiver as the October chill bites through my Brioni wool coat. If Roman had let me come as Mr. Orlov, the white-glove philanthropist, I’d already be inside, with a check written and the book in hand.

Unfortunately, Roman shot my suggestion down weeks ago. “No new faces. No records. No footprints for that fucking detective to follow.”

Cold that has nothing to do with the weather crawls across my skin. When Roman adopts that iron tone, you don’t argue. You obey.

I push away from the stone pillar and shake the frustration from my limbs.

An hour to kill. That gives me plenty of time to strategically wander.

I circle the building, taking in my surroundings and scouring for anything useful.

A maintenance hatch or electrical panel. A loose window. A utilitarian door that shut but didn’t lock.

Anything.

I find no entrances aside from the front and side doors that presumably lead into the main library, one emergency exit without a handle or lock to pick, a loading platform and locked dock doors in the back, and rows of windows, likely sealed, that extend upward for three stories.

The place is basically a fortress for paper and ink.

The beautiful stone walls, all carved scrollwork and grotesques, are also scalable, though I’d never climb them by daylight. I file that information away.

Leaves crunch under my feet as I continue to survey the area. If my shoes get too dirty, I’ll swap them out for the spares in my trunk. I always carry an extra pair.

Blood tends to attract attention, and attention often results in more blood.

I’ve completed four laps while examining the structure meticulously and found nothing. No cracks. No weaknesses. The only things I have to show for my efforts are burning muscles and the sweat beading on my neck despite the chilly air.

My annoyance tightens into cool professionalism because it’s already five to two.

The wait’s almost over.

So, I return to the front. This time when I push, the door swings open. I venture inside the vestibule, pausing long enough to hang my coat on a hook before entering the main area.

Silence hits me first. Then the sheer open space…

The place, cavernous and well-lit and still, feels like a cathedral.

White marble floors streaked with gray stretch beneath tiers of shelves stacked with ancient, leather-bound books.

Far from paperback novels, these tomes are thick, some with thread bindings showing along the spines.

The scent of dust and lemon polish lingers in the air.

Everything sits preserved, frozen in time.

For a minute, I hesitate.

I came here with a plan, but faced with the centuries of knowledge before me, a brief sliver of doubt echoes through my mind.

How the hell do I find a clue in here?

My eyes flit from the stacks to a main desk sitting in the center of the room and then to the librarian behind that desk.

She’s in her late twenties, maybe, with her blond hair drawn up in a bun even the strictest Bolshoi ballerinas would envy. As I approach, I spy a red pen resting behind her ear, the writing utensil as bright and dangerous as a bloody knife.

She’s the living essence of prim and proper, hiding her shape under a high-necked blouse and an oversize brown cardigan that nearly swallows her whole. Her trimmed, unpainted nails attack her keyboard with merciless clicks.

Her face, though…

Her eyes, their color still a mystery, scrutinize the screen. She’s got high cheekbones, pink lips set in a clean, determined line, and a straight, elegant nose. She’s beautiful in that shy girl-next-door way.

With her hair down and without the baggy clothing, she’d probably be stunning.

I tamp down the heat burning low in my gut. I don’t have time to indulge.

Not yet.

She’s a lock, and I need to find the right key. Maybe it’s seduction, maybe it’s charm, but until I know for certain, I’ve got to keep myself in check.

I’ve walked through war zones, conned billionaires, and flipped foreign agents.

I dedicated weeks of preparation for this job, precisely so I could get in and out in a snap.

This woman wants to help me. She just doesn’t realize it yet.

I approach her desk with a warm, genuine smile.

“Good afternoon.” I let my crisp, educated Russian accent slip through and spill the lie.

“I’m a visiting professor at DePaul researching some rare Russian manuscripts.

I’m looking for a book that surfaced in earlier research.

I only have a fragment of information, a single quote, but I’m hoping you could help me track down the source. ”

I stay casual but focused while shrinking the distance between us. I hold one shoulder back so she doesn’t feel crowded, pulling the tailored shirt tight across my pecs.

They usually glance up at this point, caught by the gravity of my attention. The cracks show, the fluster starts, and the blush blooms.

Not with her, though.

She slides a form across the polished wood desk, never once peering my way.

I study the triplicate paper in white, pink, and yellow. I thought this kind of paperwork died with fax machines, but here we are.

“Fill this out.” The voice from the intercom smooths to a professional chill. “You’ll need a letter of academic intent from a sponsoring institution. We’ll process it, and if approved, you’ll get a timed library pass in two to three weeks.”

She resumes tapping away on the keyboard.

Dismissed.

I stare at the blank form, then back at her as the rhythm of her clacking keyboard cuts through the quiet.

“Two weeks?” I remove my suit jacket and drape it over my arm, deliberately drawing attention to my well-sculpted chest.

She dips her chin, ignoring my efforts. “Or three.”

A dry finality punctuates her tone.

My charm didn’t land.

For at least thirty seconds, I linger, utterly flabbergasted. This never happens.

I guess I need to change tactics. Time for compliments.

“Can we at least confirm it’s here? You strike me as someone who’s very knowledgeable, so maybe knowing the quote will help. ‘The greedy tsar found only ice in his hands.’ Does that ring any bells?”

She releases a pointed sigh, the very air around her practically pulsing with impatience. “We have a database for that. The public resources are online.”