6. Egor
EGOR
The private room above my Brighton Beach casino is quieter than the chaos below.
The muffled sounds of slot machines, laughter, and clinking glasses drift through the floor beneath me as I review reports spread across the mahogany desk.
Most people think casinos are about gambling.
For me, they're about information.
Money. Power. Control.
A sharp knock sounds against the door.
Before I can answer, it swings open.
Sergei strides inside.
The fact that he doesn't wait for permission immediately puts me on alert.
My right-hand man doesn't rush. He doesn't panic. And he sure as hell doesn't interrupt me.
Not unless something is wrong.
Very wrong.
I slowly set down the report in my hand. "What is it?"
Sergei closes the door behind him.
His expression is grim. "We have a problem."
A cold feeling settles in my stomach.
I lean back in my chair.
"Talk."
One muscle jumps in Sergei's jaw.
"Someone leaked information."
The room instantly feels smaller. My gaze hardens. "What information?"
"The shipment schedule."
My fingers tighten around the armrest.
Three days ago, one of our warehouses had been hit. Not enough to hurt us financially. But enough to tell me somebody knew exactly where to strike.
Somebody had known details that should have remained inside the Bratva.
I rise slowly from my chair.
"You're certain?"
Sergei nods.
"One hundred percent."
Silence fills the room.
The ocean beyond the casino windows crashes against the Brighton Beach shoreline, distant and relentless.
Someone talked. Someone inside my organization. One of my own people.
Betrayal always pisses me off more than violence.
Violence is honest. Betrayal is cowardice.
"How many people had access to the information?" I ask.
"A handful."
My expression darkens.
"Who are you suspecting?"
"One." Sergei reaches into his jacket. "I've already looked into it."
I hold out my hand.
He places a folder in it.
I stare down at it.
My pulse is steady. Cold. Controlled.
Until I see the name inside.
"You're sure?" The words come out low, dangerous. I don't need to raise my voice.
He doesn't flinch. "Da. Only two people have access to the printout of the schedule. You… and her. And—" His jaw flexes. "The drop location was her usual market route."
The file cracks in my grip. The staple bleeds across my knuckles, the sting nothing compared to the fire roaring in my chest. My vision tunnels, the edges of the room blurring until all I see is the file. All I feel is the betrayal, hot and thick as blood.
Sergei's voice cuts through the haze. "She played you. She looked for a way to earn your trust."
A laugh claws up my throat, raw and broken. Trust. The word tastes like ash. I thought I was in control. Thought I could bend her, make her mine. But she'd been bending me instead. Twisting me around her little finger while I drank her milk and called her karamelka like a fucking fool.
My chair screeches as I shove away from the table, the legs scraping against the hardwood. The file hits the wall with a wet thud, pages fluttering to the floor like dead leaves. Sergei doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. He knows better than to speak when I'm like this.
But the silence is worse. It lets the thoughts in. The way her eyes had softened when she talked about her dead parents. The way her body had arched when I touched her. The way she'd whimpered my name.
All of it. A lie.
"Get someone to bring her here."
The door groans open, and there she stands, her cognac hair tangled from the wind, her caramel eyes wide with something that looks like fear. Or maybe it's just the reflection of the truth finally catching up to her.
She steps inside, her sneakers scuffing against the concrete floor. The room is thick with the scent of sweat and vodka, the low hum of the Bratva's murmurs dying the second she enters. They're all here watching. Waiting. Their gazes burn into her like brands.
I don't move from my chair. Don't stand. Don't give her the satisfaction of seeing how much this hurts.
"Sit." The word is a blade, slicing through the silence.
Emilia hesitates. Just for a second. Then she lowers herself onto the stool across from me, her hands twisting in her lap. The motion makes her tits shift beneath her thin shirt, the outline of her nipples pressing against the fabric. My cock stirs, traitorous fucking thing.
I lean forward, elbows on the table. "You know why you're here."
Her throat works. "No. I don't?—"
"Don't." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't speak. Not yet." My fingers tap against the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm. "You've done enough"
Her breath hitches. Her shirt darkens, and my mouth waters. Fucking pathetic.
I slide the file across the table. It stops just shy of her trembling fingers. "Recognize this?"
Emilia's lashes flutter as she glances down.
"Go on," I murmur. "Open it."
"What is it?"
I want to say the fucking proof that she's been playing me since day one, but instead, I keep it short.
"Open. It."
Her fingers shake as she flips the file open.
Her lips part. "Egor, why is my name?—"
"Because we found the rat." My voice is ice. "I was right. You are dangerous."
The room is so quiet I can hear the blood roaring in my ears. Sergei shifts behind me, his shoes scraping against the floor. A silent reminder that he's here. That they're all here.
And they're pissed.
"You were supposed to be different," I say, my voice low, dangerous. "I trusted you. Let you into my home. Let you feed me. And all this time, you've been feeding information to my enemies."
Emilia's eyes glisten. "That's not true. I would never?—"
"Wouldn't you?" I stand abruptly, the chair screeching behind me. The Bratva tenses, their hands drifting toward their weapons. Emilia flinches.
Good. She should be fucking scared.
I round the table, my shadow falling over her. She tilts her head back, her throat working as she swallows. I can see the pulse fluttering beneath her skin, fast and frantic.
"You think I didn't notice?" My fingers brush her jaw, forcing her to meet my gaze. "The way you'd ‘run out of ingredients' just in time to meet your little friends. And the milk? Was that part of the act too, karamelka? Did you enjoy letting me drink from you while you plotted behind my back?"
The whispers start.
"Lactating?"
Milk, as in breast milk?"
Her jaw drops. "Why would you talk about that?
Her breath hitches. A tear slips down her cheek, but I don't wipe it away. I watch it fall, tracking the path it takes down her throat.
"Egor, please…"
"Please what?" I grab her chin, my grip bruising.
"Hear me out. Let me?—"
"No, Pakhan," someone says. "Don't let her sweet talk her way out of this."
The Bratva stirs behind me. Pavel's voice cuts through the tension, low and lethal. "She needs to be punished, Pakhan."
Dmitry grunts in agreement. "A traitor's fate."
The rest of them start chanting.
"Punish her."