I tuck Sloane back into bed, drained and exhausted.
I leave her alone in her cell and practically run back up to my own suite, to strip off my clothes and stand under a pounding hot shower spray.
My cock is so hard it feels like it’s about to split its skin.
I soap up my hand and give three quick strokes before I explode, filling my hand with boiling hot cum.
My mind is full of the image of Sloane’s naked body, shaking and quivering under my touch. Her vulnerability, with her arms above her head and the blindfold across her eyes. The way her full lips parted to let out each moan . . .
And the sound of my riding crop coming down on her full, round ass. The way the flesh bounced, and the bright line of red striped that flawless, silky skin . . .
I don’t know what I enjoyed more: her pain or her pleasure.
It’s only the beginning of the depraved things I want to do to her.
My lust for this woman is so extreme, so overpowering, I can’t keep hold of it. I had to leave, before I lost control completely.
It’s strange. I’ve never left a woman without getting my own satisfaction. This is the first time in my life where a girl’s climax was more interesting to me than my own.
Watching the waves of pleasure rolling through Sloane’s body was more erotic than anything I’ve ever felt myself.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to unleash myself on her.
Quite the contrary.
Unfortunately, I have other business to attend to first.
Sloane has been occupying my mind since the moment she broke into my room. But I can’t forget that she’s only the weapon pointed at me by a much bigger threat.
Wherever Remizov is right now, he’s not allowing himself to be distracted by some girl. He’s focusing on me and my complete and utter destruction.
I get out of the shower, toweling myself off and pulling on a fresh set of clothes.
It’s 8:00 at night. I need a status report from my men.
I call Efrem, who’s on his way back from tracking down the guns. I tell him to hurry back, then I go down to the main level to wait for him in the war room.
While I’m waiting, I check my messages.
I see that Karol has been texting me. He’s been following Remizov from the diamond district to a restaurant on Avenue Liniya. His last message was at 5:20 p.m.:
I followed Remizov to the Abajour Cafe. He’s eating quiche and salad. Which is kind of a bitch meal. Maybe that’s his weakness—he likes girl food. We could lure him with chocolates and Cosmopolitans.
I can’t help letting out a snort. I should be harder on Karol—he’s reckless and hubristic, as all young people are. It’s hard to always be the heavy, though.
All my relationships are with subordinates. Even my own brother has to take orders. I don’t have anyone who’s an equal to me.
I laugh and joke with my men. Eat meals with them, box with them, watch movies with them.
But at the end of the day, I’m the boss.
It can be lonely.
I’ll have a talk with Karol when he gets back. Make sure he’s taking his work seriously, not taking any unnecessary risks.
For now, I simply text:
Where are you now?
I wait a moment, but I don’t see the three dots indicating that he’s about to respond.
Efrem comes into the war room, brushing the melting snow out of his hair. It must be coming down again—I haven’t even looked outside.
Dominik is with him. He looks tense and jumpy.
“We found the guns,” Efrem says at once. “They’re at a warehouse in Primorsky.”
“Good,” I say. “Let’s go get them back.”
“Alright,” Efrem says, but I can see the hesitation on his face. He glances over at Dominik.
“What is it?” I say.
“There were only two guards on the warehouse,” Dom says.
“So?”
“I dunno. Seems . . . a little too easy.”
“What, you want them at the center of a labyrinth, guarded by a Minotaur?”
“Remizov isn’t stupid,” Dom says. “He took the guns for a reason.”
“Because they’re worth two million dollars,” I say.
Dom nods. But he’s not convinced. And neither am I, even while I’m saying it.
I’ve been looking at Remizov as a thug, because he’s brutal in his methods, and he doesn’t follow the code of the Bratva—the very few rules that even our kind abide by.
However, that doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. He’s been extremely strategic in analyzing and attacking the weakest members of the underworld in St. Petersburg, slowly expanding his power without ever triggering a full-scale war with the more powerful families.
Until now.
He’s taken a shot at me, because he thinks the Petrovs are assailable. He thinks I’m arrogant. He thinks I’ll underestimate him.
Which I have been doing, so far.
“Alright,” I say to Efrem and Dom. “We won’t get them back tonight. We’ll watch and wait another day.”
“Sure,” Dom says, as if he’s just following my orders. But I can see the relief in his face.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I see it’s Oleg, calling from the front gate.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A car pulled up,” he says. “We approached, but it just dropped off a package and sped away back down the road.”
“What kind of package?”
“Just a box. Two feet tall, maybe.”
“Don’t touch it. I’ll bring the dogs.”
I hang up the phone.
The dogs are trained to sniff for explosives or drugs. Though I doubt anybody dropped off a nice little care package of cocaine for me.
I go out to the kennels and get Volya, my favorite. He whines eagerly when he sees me. He’s a good dog; he loves to work. I raised him from a puppy, along with three of his brothers.
He runs to my side when I call him. He’s dancing beside me, wanting to thrust his nose into my hand, but knowing not to do it until I reach out for him. I give him a quick scratch behind the ears as a reward for his restraint.
He trots along beside me as I walk toward the entry posts, Dom following after us. Oleg and Maks have already opened the gates. They’re standing out in the snow, waiting for me. The bright halogen perimeter lights illuminate the drive. The thick white flakes of snow seem to hang suspended in the glare.
I can see the plain cardboard box, sitting out in the middle of the road. It’s not even taped shut, the top flaps tucked in on each other to keep it closed.
“Zapakh,” I order the dog.
Volya clears his nostrils with five or six quick snorts. He approaches the box, sniffing along its top and sides for the chemical vapors of TNT, water gel, RDX, urea nitrate, or hydrogen peroxide. The most likely components of the most common types of bombs.
If he scents any of the chemicals he’s been trained to search for, he won’t touch the box. He’ll just sit down sharp—the signal that he found something.
However, Volya does not sit down. Instead, he begins to whine in a plaintive, high-pitched tone. I call Volya my big baby. He’s more intelligent than his brothers, but he’s not as vicious. He’s a little more nervous, and eager to please.
But I’ve never heard him make that sound before.
I nod at Maks.
“Check it out,” I say.
Maks walks forward, his hair a halo of white blond under the light. I see his hand trail unconsciously to the gun at his waist, as if he might want to shoot whatever’s in the box.
He lifts the flap. Then he stumbles backward, cursing.
Without thinking, I’ve already strode over to join him.
“Boss—“ Maks says, but I’m already looking inside.
I see Karol’s head staring up at me. Eyes open. Face horribly bruised and beaten.
My stomach rolls so hard that I can barely swallow back the vomit. I am immediately aflame with bright, burning, unquenchable rage.
Dom is standing next to me. He’s seen it, too.
“Ivan,” he says, laying a restraining arm on my shoulder.
I shake him off.
“Gather the men,” I say, through gritted teeth. “We’re going to kill that motherfucker.”
I expect Remizov to have gone to ground—I expect him to be hiding like a rat in a sewer, after having sent that provocation to my fucking doorstep.
But my men haven’t even finished suiting up and bringing the cars around, before Efrem tells me that Remizov isn’t hiding at all. One of our informants says that he’s sitting in the Lux club right now, cool as can be, having a drink.
I’m shaking with rage. I want to firebomb the club, turn it into Vesuvius with Remizov inside.
But there’s probably two hundred innocent people in there.
Even in my absolute fury, I don’t relish the idea of murdering waitresses and bartenders and clubgoers along with Remizov and his men.
They are his unwitting human shields. But that won’t stop me from marching in there and dragging him out by his greasy black hair.
We drive to the club in three cars. I post Jasha, Oleg, Maks, and Efrem outside, so Remizov can’t slip out the back. Jasha and Oleg point their guns at the bouncers, to prevent them from warning anyone inside. Dom, Andrei, and Vadim follow me inside.
I have my Glock in my hand. I plan to walk up to Remizov and put a bullet between his eyes. I know he’ll have his own men inside, but if it comes to a shoot-out, so be it. I’ll put my men up against his any day.
The club is dark and throbbing with loud, repetitive music. It aggravates the rage-fueled headache beating inside my skull. The air is thick with smoke and the scent of spilled drinks. I head straight for the VIP booths at the back of the club.
I see Remizov sitting there, bold as brass. His pale eyes glitter as he looks up at me, watching me approach. His face is stiff and sickly white, like a wax mask. His thin mouth is twisted up in a smile that doesn’t crease any other part of his face.
My finger tightens against the trigger of the gun. I’m about to raise the barrel, to point it at his face.
But then I see the other men in the booth, seated on either side of Remizov.
Krupin, the Minister of the Kalininsky District.
Utkin, the Commissioner of Police.
And Drozdov, the Governor of St. Petersburg.
I stop in my tracks. I know I must look supremely stupid, standing there with my mouth hanging open.
Remizov’s smile widens.
“Ivan Petrov,” he says. “Why don’t you join us?”
There’s an empty chair pulled up to the table, directly across from Remizov.
Almost as if it was put there just for me.
Remizov must have assumed that his assassin was unsuccessful when Sloane failed to check in after she tried to kill me.
So he killed Karol instead.
He sent his head to my doorstep.
And then he sat here waiting for me to arrive. Timing it to the minute, I’m sure.
He’s manipulating me like a pawn on a chessboard.
And like a trapped chess piece, I can only move forward one square.
I sit down in the chair, my gun resting on my lap, pointed at Remizov’s stomach from beneath the table.
I’m so angry that my hands are shaking, my jaw rigid. My men are standing behind me, ready to open fire at my command. But I know they recognize the minister, the commissioner, and the governor. They know as well as I do the almighty shit storm that would reign down upon us if we start shooting.
Remizov has human shields alright, but it’s not the waitresses and college students I anticipated. It’s the three most powerful men in the city.
Remizov fixes me with his cold, pale eyes.
“I was just speaking with the governor about the terrible rise in crime rates St. Petersburg has been experiencing,” Remizov says. “The conflicts in Moskovsky. The shootings in the diamond district. The fire at the docks.”
Of course, Remizov is responsible for all of those things, including, to my mind, the fire at the docks—which I set, but only after he stole my guns.
“It’s not good for tourism in St. Petersburg,” the governor says, looking sternly in my direction.
“Moscow is starting to take notice,” the commissioner says.
“The Bratva are becoming unruly,” Remizov says, his voice soft and sibilant. “I think we’re all in agreement that it’s high time that the families of the city come under centralized control.”
“Under whose control?” I laugh. “Yours?”
“That’s right,” Remizov says, unembarrassed.
My finger is itching to pull the trigger, to blast a hole in his guts right where he sits, smug and smiling.
But I know these men aren’t sitting at the table with him simply to enjoy the expensive drinks. Remizov has made some kind of deal with them. He’s paid them, or else he has leverage. Or both.
If I kill Remizov, I’ll bring down the wrath of the men who run St. Petersburg. I’ll lose more of my Bratva. I might not make it out of here myself.
My brother is right—I’ve sorely underestimated Remizov.
“This is the only time I’ll extend the olive branch to you, Petrov,” Remizov says. “I suggest you accept my offer.”
“Was Karol’s head an olive branch?” I say through gritted teeth.
There’s a lot of things I might have forgiven, for practical reasons. But I will never forgive that.
“You’re out of your mind if you think the generations old Bratva families are going to submit to some thug with no house, no name, no history,” I tell him.
I can see the minister shifting uncomfortably in his seat on my left-hand side. He’s from an old Bratva family himself, on his mother’s side.
“The Stepanovs and the Veronins have already agreed to my terms,” Remizov says calmly.
I can’t hide the look of shock on my face. For a moment I think he must be lying. But there’s no faking his smugness, his satisfaction.
“Then they’re even bigger fools than I thought,” I say.
I grab the Mamont sitting next to me and take a swig directly from the bottle. The liquor burns my throat but helps steady my hand.
I look Remizov dead in the eye.
“There will be no peace, no agreement between us,” I tell him. “You’re going to pay for what you did today.”
On my right-hand side, the commissioner says warningly, “Petrov, you ought to—“
I hold up my hand to cut him off.
I look around at the other men.
“Remizov’s honor is worth nothing. His deals with you are worth even less.”
I can see the minister looking uncomfortable once more. The other men stare at me, stone faced. They’ve made their decision. They’ve aligned themselves with Remizov, which means they’re my enemies now too.
Especially the commissioner. Our relationship has always been tenuous at best. He’s glowering at me with an expression that tells me clearly that what little courtesy the police offered to my business, to my men, is now at an end.
I stand up.
I’m loathe to leave like this, with Remizov in a position of dominance at the head of this table. With me slipping my gun back inside my jacket, having failed to avenge Karol.
But in this moment, what else can I do?
I can only swear to myself that the next time we meet, I will kill that loathsome cockroach.
