Vadim
When I woke it was to the scent of her floral shampoo. I smiled, thinking of the bonus fuck in the shower last night. Moving into the west wing—my ass. I tightened my arms around her, loving the feel of her naked body pressed against mine. Her leg was trapped between mine.
Before I could think of the various ways to wake her up I heard Runa softly babbling to herself. I untangled myself from Iskra and crossed the room, hoping to catch Runa unaware.
I peered over the cot to find her playing with her hands. A crack in the curtains sent a shaft of light across her cot and she moved her fingers through it, talking to herself in that private language of hers.
I edged slowly around the cot so I wouldn’t startle her. We had positioned the cot carefully—ensuring the poor girl would never be traumatised by her parents’ antics. Mostly her shameless mother’s, if we were being accurate.
“Good morning, little one,” I whispered as I reached her side.
Her tiny head jerked up and she reached for me with an excited squeal.
For me.
I scooped her up, freeing her from the blanket, and rested my hand over her nappy. Not too bad this morning. A feed then a change. I cradled her in one arm, accepting her face pats until she calmed enough to find my cheek.
“Daddy’s got you. I’ll never let you go anywhere, moya printsessa. You’ll live in your castle forever.”
“I’ll break her out,” Iskra said from the bed, stretching out like a cat.
“Don’t listen to her, printsessa,” I said, covering her ear with my hand.
I was keeping her. Forever.
Just like my shameless wife.
“And you get her breakfast out,” I said, waiting for her to arrange the pillows for Runa.
“You’re so moody this morning. I can’t even tell which one of us is pregnant,” she muttered, fixing the pillow into place.
I remained silent.
A trip to the basement would sort her out.
??
??
??
Before Runa, I’d never considered bloodlines. If there was a traitor to the Bratva they died. A fixed rule. I’d met Mirko twice at Bratva gatherings but had never spoken a word to him.
“You worked with him, Konstantin. What do you make of Mirko?”
“He’s a cold-blooded killer.”
“We all are,” I said, rolling my eyes at the obvious answer.
“Let me put it another way,” he said, patting his jacket for a smoke. “If I had a wife and child, I wouldn’t want him anywhere near them.”
He knew where my priorities lay.
“I asked because he is the last of Sergei,” I said, opening the compartment in front of me to pass him a packet of cigarettes.
“No offence, Pakhan, but you should probably be more worried about what Mrs Dragunova could do to him,” Bogdan muttered from the passenger seat.
Konstantin chuckled as he lit his cigarette.
I’d know more once I looked the man in the eyes. He was twenty-eight years old and I remembered being hot-headed at that age. Isolated imprisonment would bring his true character out. Defeat or bloodlust.
If he was his father’s son he would die. Sergei had clung on for over a year. With everything said and done that was impressive. The will to survive was in us all.
And our son never got that chance.
The car slowed as Tikhon parked at the warehouse. I rolled my neck and reached for the door handle but Bogdan was already pulling it open. I stepped out and straightened my jacket. Footsteps fell in line behind me as I walked to the main entrance of the derelict building.
The door had once been red but was now peeling and blackened around the edges of rotting wood. Tikhon reached past me and opened it. The stale scent inside was unpleasant—nor was it supposed to be for any resident guests.
One flight of stairs and we reached the guard beside the door.
He nodded before practically bowing. I nodded back and waited for him to open it.
The door creaked open and the smell of human excrement hit immediately. I covered my nose as someone switched the light on.
Shit and blood smeared across every wall. Two weeks’ worth of decorating by the looks of things.
Metal clinked. I looked at the man sitting on the edge of the mattress. Hands and feet chained. I waited to see his eyes.
“You took everything from me,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You Dragunovs lived in luxury while I—”
“Didn’t Sergei pay child maintenance or something?” Konstantin asked, cutting him off.
“You stole my inheritance,” he screamed, lurching to his feet.
His eyes were two hazel pools of madness.
I pulled my gun, flicked the safety off and shot him between the eyes.
“Let’s go.”
Fuck giving him a chance in exile.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Konstantin said, following me out.
“There was no fixing whatever that shit was,” I said, making my way down the stairs to escape the stench. “Get the cleaners in.”
I remembered what Iskra had mentioned about forensic evidence and paused to glance back at Bogdan.
“Grab my bullet from the room,” I told him.
He looked confused for a moment.
“It might still be in his skull.”
“Use a hatchet or something,” I said, turning away.
Next time I would use someone else’s gun.