8. Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
V iktor
“What do you mean he’s dead?” I asked my head soldier, as he stood before my desk.
“We found Sasha in his flat, sitting on the couch, dick sliced off. Clean cut. He might have been robbed. We can’t find his wallet. But his jewelry is still there.”
Interesting. “Was he armed?”
“Yes. His gun was still holstered. He never removed it.”
“Cameras?”
The soldier pulled out his phone and leaned in to show me. “Nothing unusual from outside security. Just the girl he brought home from the bar. She didn’t stay long. Her friend picked her up from outside his flat. No blood splatter on her clothing.”
“And it didn’t occur to you, or your men, that you should track this girl down and interrogate her?”
“She’s just a woman. A whore, most likely. Sasha wasn’t tied up.”
“And?” I pressed.
“There were no signs of a struggle. His blood showed no drugs. His drink was not laced. We think it’s the Italians. They snuck in through the back after the whore left, then bled Sasha out to leave the Bratva a message.”
“And just what might that message be?”
The soldier shook his head sadly. “Fuckers took Sasha’s dick with them. Probably gave it to Don Ricci. You know how dramatic the Italians are. Since it was a dick that caused the rift, and they can’t find Alexie…”
I swallowed my rage. There was that Alexie fucking arrogance again, haunting the ranks even though he was half a fucking world away. The Bratva had more than one enemy, and some were more personal than organizational.
Leveling the soldier with a glare, I snatched the phone from his hand and zoomed in. I blinked hard. I had seen this woman recently.
Tossing the phone back to him, I searched through my piles of paperwork and pulled out a stack. I flipped through it until her passport photo appeared. Yes, this was where I’d seen her. Such a naughty little girl too. No work visa, and she was supposedly dead in her own country; having died in a fire with her parents.
I had requested the temp agency who was adding people to the serving staff to send me a list of employee names. I’d run a background check on every single one. We could not be too careful with the way things were with the Italians.
Her captivating eyes initially drew my attention. I examined her headshot more closely. The curve of her lips fascinated me. Her flawless dark skin radiated under the harsh camera light. I imagined how her curly locks would bounce as her soft, sensuous mouth moved up and down my cock.
The need to unravel her secrets consumed me, more so now that she might have killed one of my men. Her past concealed mysteries that beckoned me further. She had fled to this place, and that only piqued my curiosity. What kind of darkness flowed through her veins? What could the authorities want with a woman of her allure?
“Visit her,” my mother’s voice echoed in my head.
Her address was on the employee file.
This was an obsession I had no time for, yet I couldn’t get past that smile and those eyes; windows to the soul, as they were. I recognized a kindred spirit.
And in my heart, I knew she had killed my man.
???
Since my soldiers were seemingly incompetent to handle this femme fatale issue, I decided to do it alone. I parked outside Tiffany’s building. My understanding was that she had already left for work, but the landlord, after hearing my name, assured me it would be no issue to inspect the apartment.
I knocked on his door. The moment he opened it, I went straight to business. “Open apartment A3,” I growled. “Now.” I had no time for formalities.
“Yes, yes,” he stuttered. “I have the key right here, sir.” The rank smell of his sweat was overpowering his cheap cologne. “My condolences for your man,” he offered as he led the way. “The neighborhood is obviously shocked.”
Nodding, I followed him silently, my hand on my gun in case he had any ideas.
Once her door was opened, I threw a few bills his way. “For your trouble and your silence.” My warning tone wasn’t to be taken lightly. “Leave.”
“Thank you, sir,” he murmured. “As always, I am happy to help where I can.”
Most of the residents knew the Bratva ran things in this area. We were essentially the authorities here, as the police were on our payroll.
“Sir,” the nervous man said, turning back. “Tiffany, I mean the tenant, is a young, sweet woman. American. She is new, and might not know…” he trailed off. “I just thought you should know.”
I narrowed my gaze. “She will learn soon enough,” I responded quietly.
The landlord nodded, looking a little sad, and walked away, leaving me to investigation.
I went through her small home, which smelled of flowers and citrus, and hints of vanilla. Everything seemed innocent enough at a glance. Tidy. Just a young woman’s home. She seemed to enjoy plants. Studying botany. Lots of books. She had a still set up to collect hydrosol and volatile oils.
I started in her bathroom. Rummaging through her personal belongings revealed no secrets. I checked her cabinets for hidden compartments. I didn’t even find anything in the toilet’s water tank, where many hid money… or stolen wallets, perhaps.
I left the bathroom and strolled through the small space. The kitchen, living room, and dining room were one and the same. It was curious to me how some were destined to have much, and others so little. Having grown up wealthy, it was hard to fathom that her whole apartment was smaller than my bedroom alone.
Speaking of bedrooms…
At first glance, hers was a normal one. Bed. Dresser. Nothing out of the ordinary. The wardrobe revealed she was organized. Clothes hung up and shoes lined on racks. But a glint of light caught my eye from a break between her dresses and her blouses. I pulled the clothes back, which revealed a small, inconspicuous shelf hidden in the back. Rather than purses and jewelry, jars lined the space. Most seemed to be filled with liquids. Essential oils, perhaps. But the shelf below displayed shriveled items. Mushrooms, maybe. But then…
I grabbed a jar and looked at the floating appendage inside. Sliced clean off and preserved. Rage rushed through my veins, and I allowed the jar to drop to the ground and shatter. As much as I wanted to be furious that she killed one of my men, I found I was more pissed that she might have fucked him first.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I suppressed my temper. It didn’t matter who came before me. They were irrelevant now. She wouldn’t be fucking anyone else ever again.
Strange, I mused, how I came to make such a decision. It was only a photo. It was only a jar with an organ in it. So why did I need to possess this woman, whom I’d never met, especially when I had no desire to marry?
I left her bedroom to return to the common space. In the kitchen, I peeked in drawers and cabinets. Her pantry did not consist of food. Rather, she had shelves of flora and fungi that preferred low to no light, some in jars, some in pots.
Lucky for me, she had tools of her trade nearby; like baggies, gloves, and scissors. I clipped a few plants in the back so it wouldn’t be seen. I would send them off to the lab for testing.
I pocketed my samples and strolled through her indoor garden. The most well-used books, with pages marked, seemed to have something unusual in common: Toxicity .
Once I brought her home, I would make sure she had the best personal conservatory money could buy.
Yesterday, I would have never contemplated such a thing; an abduction to secure a prisoner in a gilded cage. My mom haunted me as it was, and I had no desire to deal with the mechanisms and manipulations of women.
But now I could see how I was my father’s son. I was selfish, greedy, and not a good man. I would find a way to possess what I wanted, by any means necessary. That was how I imagined my mother in relation to my father. He locked her away. But regardless of how they felt about each other, she was his, and my father kept what was his.
And though how I felt made little sense to a man like me, Tiffany would be mine.
I departed just as discreetly as I had arrived, stopping to grab a pair of panties from her laundry on my way out. I pocketed them. A faint smile graced my lips.