Page 124 of The Lazarov Bratva

QUEEN BRIDE

1

KRISTOF

Blood drips down from my fingertips, smearing onto the gemstone necklace clutched in my hand and dulling its shine.

Alena’s necklace.

Torn curtains drift gently in the breeze that wafts in through the broken glass, giving a false illusion of softness as the dying light of the day turns splatters of red blood into empty, hollow pools of darkness. They whisper to me, taunting me with the knowledge of what happened here in a language I can never understand. The dark wooden floors now forever carry the stain of those who died here.

And it all means nothing because…

Alena is gone.

My heart is broken.

It seems like only yesterday I placed this necklace around her throat and made her promise never to take it off. She swore that she never would, and I was content, certain the collar marked the beginning of a new chapter in life for us. A pretty collar for an even prettier woman, a sparkling symbol of my ownership and devotion.

Now its broken pieces cut into my palm as I slowly trudge from the bedroom.

My home was supposed to be a safe place for both of us. Alena had her worries, and I had done everything in my power to reassure her. I told her that it was where I felt the safest, and she would eventually feel the same. It was my childhood home and had withstood more than its fair share of hardships.

I made so many promises and reassurances when bringing her here, and for what?

She’s gone. And that’s not the only pain that rocks me to my core.

My brother, Ivan, is dead.

My sister, Nastja, died by my own hand to save her from a slower, more painful death.

I have nothing left.

Blood dries to a stain on my skin while I slowly descend the stairs, avoiding the scattered bodies of my own men and those who attacked us.

If I had been here, maybe things would have been different. Instead, I was elsewhere trying to tackle the threat directly.

Aleksander Orlova. Alena’s father.

For the first time in his life, he showed genuine care for his daughter and snatched her back from me. I try to tell myself that there’s a chance she’s alive and that the blood-stained, broken collar is nothing but a cruel twist of fate. A trick to test me in some fucked up way.

Each sluggish, painful beat of my broken heart tells me otherwise.

Less than an hour ago, I confronted Aleksander. I was so sure that I would be the one to end this by killing him and making sure Alena was safe with me forever. I was arrogant and far too sure of myself as we swept through the building and cleared out all the men he had stationed on each floor.

I hadn’t called anyone for help because this was personal, and I was certain Aleksander would be dead at my feet by dusk.

I was wrong.

With each step I take, painful memories flash through my mind like shards of glass burrowing into my very psyche.

My brother, Ivan, a pillar by my side for most of my life, stood next to me against an enemy I created for the good of the Russian Family, and he took a bullet to the skull for it.

A bullet shot by my old friend and Boss, Aleksander, the failing Pakhan of the Russian Bratva.

Telling myself that Ivan didn’t feel any pain doesn’t ease the crushing, suffocating grief that consumes me.

Another step, another painful flash.

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