Page 101 of Bratva Butcher

How idiotic of me. The man hadn’t missed me. Missedinsultingme, maybe. Missed fucking with my head with his whole hot and cold routine.

But he hadn’t missedme.

“Stupid, arrogant, good-looking son of a bitch,” I grumbled under my breath.

My hand itched for the comfort of my blades, but given the social setting, I didn’t think it would be acceptable to walk back into the main ballroom holding them.

Unfortunately.

Dimitri had been right about one thing, though I would never admit it to his face. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be an event I’d be invited to. The guest listwasvery exclusive, and the only reason I was even there was because I was somebody else’s plus one.

“There you are, darling.”

Ugh, speak of the devil.I plastered a big, fake smile on my lips and turned to face the owner of the male voice.

Dr Johnathon Warren, a forty-nine-year-old psychologist who owned several private practices in London. He was a close family friend of Allistair, the man hosting the night’s ball, and my next target.

He was a rather average-looking man. Sandy blonde hair, thin lips. While he’d been nothing but kind to me, the same couldn’tbe said for other women. According to my source, he’d raped six women in his office. Women who were struggling, looking for someone to talk to, someone to help them. He’d taken advantage of them right there without a care in the world for the consequences, telling them that even if they reported it, no one would believe them. That he was a well respected doctor who came from a rich family, capable of burying whatever investigation they tried to bring against him.

He belittled those women. Made them feel small. Alone. Worthless. All while taking whatever he wanted from them.

And one of them committed suicide because of it.

Sabrina Kays was sixteen years old and struggling with depression. She went to Dr Warren in the hopes that he could talk her off the cliff she was standing on. Instead, he pushed her over it.

Her mother, Beatrice, contacted me and asked me to put an end to his reign of terror on young, vulnerable women. Being in the mood to kill someone, I took the contract pro bono.

“Johnathon.” I accepted his kiss on the cheek with no protest, despite the fact that his lips on my skin made me want to vomit. “My apologies. There was a line for the ladies room. You were looking for me?”

“Yes.” He handed my black clutch back to me. “They’re about to serve dinner, and we need to take our seats.” He offered me his arm. “Shall we, my dear?”

I smiled, and this time it wasn’t fake. Now that it was time for dinner, it meant I was one step closer to completing my goal and getting the fuck out of there.

Looping my arm through his, I allowed him to escort me out of the ballroom and into the formal dining area. Dozens of circular tables were set up throughout the space, each one adorned with beautiful white lace tablecloths and expensive gold placesettings. Most of the guests were already seated, only a few free tables remaining.

I couldn’t help but scan my surroundings, searching for the set of mesmerising sapphire eyes that set my soul on fire as Johnathon led me to one of the tables at the front of the room. He greeted people as we walked past with a simple nod of the head or a friendly smile.

“Here you go.” He pulled out a gold-plated chair, sweeping his arm across it in a gentlemanly gesture.

If I didn’t know what he liked to do in the dark, I’d almost believe the act he was putting on.

I thanked him and sat down. Seven other people were already at the table, talking quietly amongst themselves. An elderly couple—the woman dressed in a beautiful Victorian era ball gown with her hair up in a stylish up-do, the man dressed in a black tuxedo with a pair of white gloves on his hands—introduced themselves as Mr and Mrs DeShawn. I didn’t know them, but I gave them what I hoped was a friendly smile in return.

Sitting next to them was a stunningly beautiful brunette woman, Richelle Winter. She had expensive diamond earrings dangling from her ears that matched the diamond pendant around her throat.

Next to her was a man named Ian Phillips and his wife, Victoria Phillips. He was an asshole. I’d only caught the very end of their conversation when I sat down, but that was all I needed to hear to know that he was a royal jackass and she was a whiny bitch. A match made in heaven.

There was a blonde gentleman sitting next to them, Joel Miller and his African American husband, Andre Miller, both dressed in black suits with matching red ties and pocket squares.

“She’s a pretty one, Johnathon,” Ian commented, pointing his champagne glass at me. “Better than last year’s, that’s for sure. How much did this one cost?”

Victoria snickered. I had a feeling she was one of those people who was more pretty on the outside than she was on the inside.

“More than you could afford,” I said casually as I placed my clutch down on the table.

A round of laughter went through the table.

“This is Natalie,” Johnathon introduced, taking his seat. “And if you must know, she’s actually a family friend.”

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