Deadly (Born Bratva Book 5) (28 page)

Roksana

I’m usually not a believer in the paranormal, but I try to keep an open mind. That shit tonight has gotten inside my head. Anastasia and I left Oleg and Dmitriy to discuss logistics for continued surveillance. She and I parted ways at our respective doors without a word, each of us lost in our thoughts.

I’m back in our suite of rooms now, scowling at the wall of shoes and clothes in my walk-in closet/dressing room. The night is far from over and there remains much to be done. I need to change clothes but I can’t seem to clear my mind after tonight’s drama.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that superstitions run rampant in Bratva. The elders often feel a deep emotional attachment to traditional images and icons of the supernatural, but the younger generations usually embrace them more for the sake of tradition than anything else. Such traditions are deeply ingrained in my Bratva soul, but now? After seeing Malverde bow down before the Grim Reaper, that image will be sealed in my brain for the rest of my life. That was some freaky shit.

I strip off my clothes down to just bra and panties. I’m rifling through a drawer, looking for the standard dark clothing that will conceal me as I go about more Bratva business later tonight. As I open another drawer, sighing in frustration, my ponytail is yanked aggressively, my head snapping back so hard that I wince and cry out in pain.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

He drags me over to the upholstered bench that sits in front of the cheval mirror, just inside the door. I stumble in my confusion, momentarily disoriented. I know the voice that rumbles in my ear and his delicious scent that surrounds me. But this isn’t the face of the man I’ll be marrying. The Grim Reaper stares back at me, one arm clamped tightly around my shoulders, a gloved hand fastened around my neck. He tilts his head down toward my neck as he slides his hand up my torso. He pops the front closure of my bra and lays his hand over my breast.

I absently think to myself that his widely splayed, leather-encased fingers look like an inky black starfish against my skin. Then the long, thick fingers begin to curl inward like claws, clutching my flesh in a grip that is nothing short of vicious. I gasp in pain and a frisson of alarm roars through me as he tightens his hold on my neck.

He shoves me down over the vanity bench and kicks my knees wide apart. The fabric of my thong gives way easily as he tears it from my body and thrusts his cock inside me to the hilt.

As he pounds into me from behind, he traces the Grim Reaper tattoo on my back. His touch is strangely gentle, almost reverent, and yet there’s nothing civilized about the way he’s taking me. This is a man lost in the throes of pure animal instinct -- primal lust in its most basic form. My body can’t help but respond to its master as every grunting impact of his hips against my body produces a surge of wet heat at my core.

Facing the ornately gilded mirror, I’m unable to look away from the insanely erotic image. As Oleg’s eyes burn into me from the confines of the mask, he slides a glove off and rakes his fingernails slowly, deliberately, across the image on my back like talons.

And then I understand; this claiming, this branding, is being carried out by none other than the Grim Reaper himself – Oleg’s darkness personified. And the Grim Reaper is fucking me brutally, without restraint. He subdues me with an impersonal, coldhearted violence that appeals to the darkest corners of my soul, leaving me gasping and shuddering in the most powerful orgasm of my life.

What was it he said? Something about how even Malverde had to succumb to the Grim Reaper before he became a legend. Most legends aren’t recognized until they’re six feet under. But Oleg and me? By the time we’re done, we’ll be legends in life and death.  

Anastasia

“Damn,” I mutter. “How long does it take to change your clothes for a stake out?”

Dmitriy waggles his eyebrows and grins, “Maybe they were delayed. You know, if you keep making me wait…”

“What? I’m not making you wait,” I blurt, shaking my head. “Listen, I don’t know what you think is happening here, but I’m not doing anything but working with you.”

Our verbal sparring is supposed to just be a way to kill time while we wait for Roksana and Oleg in his SUV – right? As Dmitriy smirks and playfully bites his lip, he makes it clear that he doesn’t buy it. And neither does my heart, if the raucous pounding against my ribcage is anything to go by.

Whether I want to admit it or not, he affects me like no other man I’ve ever encountered. I don’t like it one bit, don’t want the complications that an affair would create in my new life. I’m here to work, I have a lot to prove. I don’t need the distraction.

I open my mouth to set him straight, but flop back in my seat when the back doors open and we are joined by Oleg and Roksana. The arrival of our partners in crime gives me a reprieve, but Dmitriy’s steady gaze makes it clear that it’s only temporary and that, as far as he’s concerned, there are things to be said.

“So where are we headed, Oleg?”

“Back to our boy's bar. You guys heard him; our boy has a shipment coming in soon. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when it comes in.”

“What do you plan on doing?”

“No plan yet.”

“Yeah, right,” Roksana says skeptically, as if she knows good and well he has something up his sleeve. “You’re just going to make us wait to see what it is.”

“One thing I promise each of you is that everyone in this car tonight will make it home alive.”

The rest of the ride is spent in silence, the kind of silence that comes from not knowing what the future holds.

Oleg

When you’re in the Bratva life for as long as I’ve been in it, you learn to listen to your gut. I believe some -- like the Pakhan, for example -- are born with intuition or gut instincts, and spend a lifetime honing them to perfection. The need to survive is strong when you court death on a daily basis.

“Turn here, Dmitriy. Go up to the third level in this parking garage. Cut your lights as soon as you get in there. Park facing east so we get a good view of the alley where our boy conducts business.

After we park, I grab my night vision glasses. Not only do they show me the city’s secrets but they record them in the form of pictures. They’ll provide the proof I’ll need to show the Pakhan.

I peer over the side of the third floor ledge and scan the alley for activity. There’s our boy, and he’s not alone, although this time he’s talking to a man and not harassing a woman.

“Well, fuck me sideways. Looks like our boy may be talking to law enforcement,” I observe quietly.

“Hey,” Anastasia cuts in, “can I take a look? I might be able to tell you for sure.” She looks through the night vision lenses and nods her head. “Yeah, he’s got to be pretty high up on the food chain because the man he’s talking to is undercover DEA. I remember seeing him at the precinct sometimes.”

“Good to know,” I tell her. “The problem is that the agent he’s dealing with isn’t on our payroll. Normally in a case like this, we’d leak information and let the cartel do our dirty work. But without that inside connection to leak it for us, it’s going to have to be hands on.”

“That’s a problem, as you know,” Dmitriy cuts in. “The Pakhan is of the belief that if we can use someone else to do our dirty work there’s less chance it will come back to bite us in the ass.”

Though Roksana and I agree with him, we still welcome the opportunity to be hands-on. Too long without a kill and we’re lusting for the blood of an enemy.

“Wait five minutes and meet me in that back alley,” I say with a glance to Roksana.

“Be careful.”

“You know me, I’m all about staying alive.” I finger the syringe in my pocket and it gives me confidence that I’ll be able to take this guy from his turf back to mine, where I’ll have the privacy to find out what the fuck is going on.

Things have gotten much more confusing now that I’ve seen this guy talking to an undercover DEA agent. Is the guy an informant or has the agent gone undercover as part of the gang?

What I find out tonight is going to determine how we deal with this situation. I have no intention of killing a DEA agent and putting that kind of heat on our organization when we’re poised to launch a legitimate business. This is just one example of how things can get turned sideways so quickly.

I pull the hoodie up over my head and jam my hands in the pockets, slouching over to keep my face obscured. This guy’s friends will be looking for him and, if I’m right about him being an informant the cops will be on the hunt as well. Time is on our side, though, because it’ll be too late for him by then.

I ease up against the concrete wall and mix into the shadows where I silently observe my mark. It’s just him. I know instinctively to make a move before the atmosphere changes and I have company I don’t want.

“Hey, man, I’m looking to score. Your buddy inside the bar said you’d be able to hook me up.”

As he digs around in his pocket, I grab the syringe and stick it into his neck. He immediately slides down the concrete alley wall. He knocks a garbage can lid over, the clanging and banging scaring an army of rats from their hiding places. I close my eyes as they scatter in every direction.
I fucking hate rats
.

I look up to see Dmitriy pulling into the alley and I can’t help but smile. As usual, my partner is right on time. He jumps out and has to bob and weave to avoid stepping on a few rats who are too fucking lazy to give up their position in the alley.
Fuckers.

“Damn, man, you thinking about getting a pet or something? Maybe taking one of these rodents home to the little lady? You could tell her they’re Guinea pigs,” he cackles as he walks toward our prize and rolls up his sleeves.

I straighten from where I had been reaching down to grab Miguelito’s ankles, and glare at him. “Real nice, asshole.”

I grab the ankles, Dmitriy takes the wrists and, with the guy’s head lolling like a bobble head doll, we lift him. We heave an unconscious Miguelito into the back of the SUV and head to the warehouse. I need privacy for what I have in mind.