Page 71 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

Ivan gives me another look. “Houston Grill. Matthew Phelps’s joint.”

We knew from our own investigation that Phelps had a stake in several diners and restaurants across the city—all of which should’ve resulted in a major conflict of interest for many of his city council votes. But without any proof on paper and only rumors to rely on, knowing this information felt useless.

Not anymore.

Phelps, the high and mighty politician running for state senate, facilitated a meeting between mafia bosses. A meeting in which a decision was made. A decision to have me, my brother, and my best friend killed because we were spoiling a carefully crafted ecosystem of trafficking directly coordinated by the Feds’ Chicago field office.

“Larionov decided to be stupid then,” Artur sighs. “I’d hoped he’d be more reasonable.”

“When have you ever known that dumb fucker to be reasonable?” Ivan grumbles.

My phone pings. One look at the screen and my stomach sinks. Every other noise, including Rudy’s panting and wretched sobs, is drowned out by the sudden drumming in my ears. My heart is thudding as I stare at the image I just received via text from an unknown sender.

“Guys,” I mutter, beckoning Ivan and Artur to come closer.

The three of us are faced with our worst nightmare, now come true. Lyric, sitting on a dirty old sofa, looking pale, terrified, and in visible discomfort. The image is accompanied by a simple but effective message.

“45th and Lennox. Midnight. You know what to do,” I read the words aloud.

Ivan roars with unbridled fury and takes the bat to Rudy’s knees again.

“Ivan, stop!” Artur pulls him away, making sure the bat hits the floor while Rudy pretty much soils himself in sheer horror. “Stop, man. We need a clear head about us.”

“What happened?” Rudy asks, his eyes wide and glassy.

I give him a sour look. “Consequences of your father’s dumb actions.”

“They have her,” Ivan snarls. “What the fuck do we do?”

Ice fills my veins as I abandon my emotions. My love for Lyric gets tucked away, wrapped in layers of cold, merciless darkness as I get up and shift my focus back to Ivan and Artur.

“We get her back,” I tell them. “The smart way.”

“The smart way,” Artur repeats, doubt saturating his tone.

“We’ve got a couple more hours,” I say. “And one more stop to make before 45th and Lennox.”

The Larionov villa is well guarded, especially at night, but the old man’s bouncers are slow and lazy, and no match for us. Besides, we’re remarkably motivated by Lyric’s abduction to the point where we go through each security detail like a red-hot knife would go through a stick of butter. One by one, they fall as we work our way to the top floor.

The clock is ticking, and I have no intention of losing this war.

We find Larionov in his private study, sharing a bottle of grappa with his daughter.

“How sweet,” I quip as I burst through the double doors, leaving two more bodies behind. Ivan and Artur are quick to flank the chairs by the window where Larionov and Polina are seated. “Good. You’re both here. It’ll make everything go a lot easier.”

Polina stills, glass in hand, panic imprinted upon her pretty face. Larionov grunts and makes a move for his ankle piece, but Ivan fires a warning shot that hits the chair leg. Wood splinters fly out. Polina screams. Larionov curses and raises his hands in a quick, defensive gesture.

“We need to talk,” I say, surprised by my own calmness. “What did they promise you?”

“What are you referring to?” the old man asks, not even bothering to hide the deception anymore. It is blatantly disrespectful.

“I don’t think you want to do things this way,” I warn.

Artur and Ivan have their guns trained on them both. Polina seems confused and outraged, her gaze bouncing between us in growing agitation. “Max, what are you doing?”

“You know damn well what I’m doing, Polina. You brought this upon yourselves,” I say. “The minute you betrayed us, you knew this would be coming.”

Larionov scoffs, shaking his head in disgust. “You were supposed to be dead already.”

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