His Twisted Vow (London Bratva #5)

Vadim

Pain flashes through my fist as it hits the face of the arsehole who decided talking back to me was a good idea.

He’s regretting that decision now in this alley behind the club, the rain lashing down, mixing with his blood.

“Still want to call me a prick?” I ask, yanking him towards me by his shirt front.

He spits blood on the ground. “Fuck you.”

I hit him again.

His head snaps back. His knees buckle, but I keep him upright by his shirt. I’m not finished. Men who disrespect me learn the lesson once. If they survive, they remember it.

The back door opens behind me.

Music spills into the alley. I turn, still holding the man upright.

My younger brother Lev steps outside. Rain darkens his blond hair within seconds. His expression is amused.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just enjoying the show.”

“Yeah? Well, enjoy this.” I pull a stiletto blade from my Tom Ford jacket pocket and ram it into the fucker with the big mouth.

He grunts as I pull it back out.

“Ouch,” Lev remarks. “What did he do?”

“He insulted my manners.”

Lev glances at the man bleeding against my fist. “You don’t have any.”

“That’s why it pissed me off.”

I release the bastard. He drops to his knees, one hand pressed against the wound in his side. I aimed the blade carefully. He’ll live if he gets help soon.

I wipe the knife on his shirt before returning it to my pocket.

“He belongs to Anton Melnikov,” Lev says.

“I know.”

“That could create trouble.”

“Good. I’m bored.”

My brother laughs under his breath. “Uncle Baz is trying to make a deal with Melnikov for some territory over on the west side.”

I straighten my jacket cuffs. “Baron will accept that this man insulted our family by insulting me. He will be impressed with my restraint.”

“So you hope.”

“So I know.”

“Hmm. Anyway, business calls. There is a shady-looking idiot waiting in your office. Says he needs a new passport, Italian if you can.”

I give him a scathing glare. “If I can? Rude as fuck.”

Lev holds the door open. “Try not to stab this one. He brought cash.”

“That depends on his manners.”

I step over Melnikov’s man and enter the club. Two guards wait inside the service corridor. One of them shuts the steel door, cutting off the rain and the noise of London at night.

Lev falls into step beside me as we head towards the private stairs. “You’re in a charming mood.”

“I was having a decent evening until everyone started speaking.”

“That must make family dinners difficult.”

“It does when you attend.”

We reach the upper floor. The bass from below vibrates through the walls, muted enough that I can conduct business without shouting. My office sits at the end of the corridor behind two armed men. They move aside when they see me.

I stop with my hand on the door. “Did you search him?”

Lev gives me a wounded look. “No. I invited an armed stranger into your office because I’m hoping to inherit your watches.”

“You won’t. You don’t need them.”

“I know. You’ll be buried with them. Still, would be nice to be thought of.”

I open the door.

The man waiting inside rises too quickly. Bogdan looms over him, at least a head and shoulders taller. I glance at the silent giant, who stands around six-seven, maybe more, a good three inches taller than me, and nod. Bogdan grunts and leaves the office as Lev perches on the edge of my desk.

“What do you want?” I ask the definitely shady-looking cunt standing in front of my desk.

He swallows and looks at Lev before returning his attention to me. “I was told you provide documents.”

“You were told correctly. That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I need an Italian passport. A clean one. New identity, supporting records, everything.”

“Not cheap,” I say, moving around the desk to sit.

“I’ve got cash. Lots of it.” He pulls out a wad from his scruffy leather jacket. He chucks it on my desk.

Lev scoops it up and rises, moving to the counterfeit detector on the sideboard. He shoves the notes in one by one, discarding them into two piles. The counterfeit pile is bigger.

“You come to me with fake cash?”

He blinks and licks his lips as he stares at the cash. “I didn’t know. I swear.”

“That makes you stupid as well as disrespectful.”

His face loses what little colour it had. “Someone paid me with it. I thought it was real.”

Lev feeds another note into the machine, and another note goes onto the counterfeit pile. “This one disagrees.”

I settle back in my chair and study our guest. Cheap jacket. Mud on his boots. Bruised knuckles. His right hand keeps drifting towards his hip before he catches himself.

“Bogdan searched you,” I say. “So whatever you keep reaching for isn’t a weapon.”

The man forces his hand to his side. “Habit.”

“Bad one.”

“I can get more money.”

“Real money?”

He nods hard. “Give me two days.”

Silence fills the office. Lev finishes checking the notes and counts the genuine pile.

“Eight hundred,” he says. “He might be able to buy a train ticket.”

“I need to leave the country,” the man says.

“That isn’t my problem.”

“Take the eight hundred as a down payment. I’ll get you the rest by tomorrow.”

I consider the options. He will either return with the actual cash, or he won’t—probably because he will be dead by whoever he is running from.

I’ll be eight hundred up either way. “Fine. Same time tomorrow.” I gesture for him to stand against the left wall in the red square marked on the floor.

Lev reaches for the lights and flicks them all on, as I stand and pull the camera from the bottom drawer.

“Don’t smile,” I say, lifting it and focusing on his face. I snap the shot and dump the camera on the desk as Lev lowers the lights. “Go now.”

“You’ll have it for me tomorrow?” he asks a little desperately.

“No,” I draw out. “Deal with cash up front. Then we’ll talk.”

“Talk,” he croaks.

“Go. You have three thousand two hundred to find in less than twenty-four hours.”

He backs towards the door. “I’ll get it.”

“If you don’t, don’t come back.”

He glances at the pile of counterfeit on the sideboard. Lev folds his hands in front of him and stares the man down until he backs up all the way out of the door. Bogdan comes in and closes the door, standing in front of it like a tank.

I cross over to the fake bills and pick them up, flicking through them. I hand them to Bogdan. “Not ours, but distribute outwards.”

Bogdan takes the notes wordlessly and shoves them in his jacket pocket.

“Anything else?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. This is one reason I keep him around. He doesn’t yap in my ear the entire time, unlike some people.

“Fine,” I say as he moves out of the way and opens the door. “Lev. I’ll see you later.”

“You’re leaving?”

“The noise is getting to me,” I say, trying not to cringe as the wave of music hits my senses.

“You picked a fucking stupid place to conduct business,” he says, following me out.

We hit the back stairs, head down, and push out into the cold, wet night with relief. I draw in a deep breath as quietly as I can.

“Pays the bills,” I point out.

“Facts,” he says, moving to his black Ferrari and, with a wave, he climbs in and fires the engine, peeling away from the parking lot like the devil is on his arse.

I take my time getting to my car. The rain has eased, but water runs from my hair into my collar.

I unlock the Bentley and climb in. The club isn’t far from my home in Mayfair.

I start the engine and pull away with more decorum than Lev.

Lev has always been the wild child. I’ve always been more cautious.

Thirty-seven years in the Bratva has taught me not to rush in where angels fear to tread.

People mistake it for fear. They’re dead wrong.

Five minutes later, I pull up outside the mansion in Mayfair, and the gates roll open. I drive through them and cut the engine as they slide closed behind me.

Shoving open the door, I step out into the kind of drizzle that soaks you to the bone. Ivan has the door open for me before I reach it, and I give my butler a nod as I drip onto the marble floor he probably spent all morning polishing.

“I’ll be upstairs. No interruptions,” I say to him as I pass.

“Very well, sir,” he says with a nod, closing the door behind me.

I take the stairs two at a time, stripping off as I go. I need a shower, and ten minutes without another idiot demanding something.

My jacket comes off. I tug my tie loose and unfasten the top buttons of my shirt as I push open my bedroom door.

The dark room immediately decompresses my overworked senses.

I throw the jacket on the back of the chair to dry off and strip off completely, dumping the damp clothes in the laundry hamper in the en-suite.

I stand in front of the dresser and carefully remove my Patek Philippe watch.

I place it in the box in the top drawer and move to the shower to flick it on.

The moon is the only source of light in the bathroom, and it suits me fine.

My reflection is a dark shadow that doesn’t show my rain-soaked dark hair or blue eyes, which are the family trait.

I step beneath the water and brace my hands against the tiled wall. Heat works into my back, loosening muscles that have been tight since this morning.

Blood runs from my knuckles. Most of it belongs to Melnikov’s man.

The cut across my skin will seal by morning.

I wash quickly, shut off the water, then reach for a towel.

Moments later, I crawl into bed, naked, flat on my back, and close my eyes.