Page 3 of The Lazarov Bratva

“Now, Alena!”

Ugh.

2

KRISTOF

The bass tones of Billie Eilish’s Bad Guy jerk me awake late in the afternoon. My body aches, my throat is as dry as sandpaper, and the thumping of the music somehow matches the sluggish beat of my heart, fueling the throb in my skull.

Too much celebratory drinking last night.

Or not enough.

Bracing on one hand, I push myself up, and the warmth of a body next to me brings back the memory of the escort I had taken home last night. She’s still asleep, undisturbed by the ringtone. Her bare chest rises rhythmically, each breath pulling at the marks I’ve left on her body from a wild night.

Pay a woman enough, and she won’t care how dark your tastes run.

Mine never do.

Sitting up increases the throbbing in my skull, pushing my mood south. Whoever’s calling me at this hour had better have a few Hail Marys under their belt.

“Hello?” My voice drags up my throat, and I wince, fighting the urge to cough.

“Kristof!” The cheery tones of my brother and sister, Ivan and Nastja, join together in a painful chorus over the line, and a growl of pain rises in my chest. Fuck, they’re too happy for—I glance at the clock—eight p.m.

Fuck.

“Brother!” Ivan’s slight Russian accent takes over the call. “We just heard the news, not that we had any doubt.”

“A problem never lasts long when Kristof is around,” my sister adds. Her accent has a thicker Russian lilt. Like me, she travels back to Russia more than our brother.

“Do I ever disappoint?” Rising, I trudge through the dark bedroom and out into the lounge. I don’t need my escort overhearing anything worth more than I can pay her.

“Definitely not,” Ivan agrees.

“Do we get details?” Nastja asks. “I heard they pulled a body from the river, but no head and no hands makes identification impossible.”

“As it should be,” Ivan mutters. “The Petrovs will think twice next time.”

“There are no more Petrovs.” Trudging into the kitchen, I pour a glass of water as silence falls on the line. My pants hang low, clinging to my waist by a thread of elasticity, and I down the cold water like it’s the elixir of life.

“None at all?” Nastja asks cautiously.

“Nope. Unless there’s some bastard baby hiding somewhere. Even if there is…” I scoff, turning and leaning against the counter. “There’s nothing left for them to salvage.”

“Holy shit,” Ivan breathes out, then he cheers and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Let’s fucking go! Orlova on top, baby. Always!”

Few things in my life are as precious to me as my brother and sister. They are my heart and the only two people I trust completely, even more than my friend and the Pakhan of the Family, Aleksander Orlova. It was hard to believe we used to be rivals, but we share love and a protective urge for the same apple.

His daughter, Alena.

That doesn’t mean we always see eye to eye, though. “We wouldn’t have had a problem with the Petrovs for this long if I were in charge.”

“Kristof,” Ivan warns. “You can’t say such things.”

“It’s fucking true. For too long, they were able to skim off the top of deals we set up for them. We nurtured them, we got them on their feet, and how did they pay us back? By trying to swipe the entire West Coast drug trade right out from under our noses. If I were in charge, I would have killed them months ago when we lost the docks.”

“And you would have started a war,” Nastja interjects. “You’re too hot-headed sometimes.”

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