Page 24 of Ruthless Bratva King

“They won’t be alive long enough to look for anyone,” Dmitri says darkly. “Now get going.”

17

DMITRI

The cold from the slaughterhouse seeps into my bones as soon as I step inside.

The room is cavernous, with rows of gleaming steel tables and hooks dangling from chains overhead.

The faint squeak of one swinging in the slight breeze is the only sound besides the steady drip of water from somewhere I can’t see. My nose wrinkles at the sting of bleach, fighting a losing battle against the coppery tang of blood.

Peter sits at the heart of it all, a king on his throne. His throne just happens to be a butcher’s table, his scepter a carving knife he twirls lazily between his fingers.

His tattoos crawl up his neck and spill onto his shaved head, intricate black and gray designs that seem to move under the flickering overhead light.

“Dmitri,” he says, not looking up. His voice is gravel dragged over stone, and the single word carries the weight of a thousand accusations. “You’re late.” He slams the knife into a severed hand, chopping off a finger with a single blow.

I take a few more steps forward, the sound of my boots echoing off the walls. “I had things to handle,” I say, my voice calm and flat.

He yanks a gold ring from the finger . His pale eyes lift, locking onto me with a predator’s gaze. “I heard about the two men from Lombardi,” he repeats, dragging the word out like it’s something offensive. “And the dozen at the casino. You’re building up quite the body count.”

“You told me to leave no witnesses.” I think of Elena, about her life on a knife edge right now.

“They talk?”

“Eventually.”

“And?”

“Gave me some locations to check. I’m working through the list.”

He stares at me. “Tell me you’ve found it.”

I hold his gaze. The trick with Peter is to never flinch. He feeds on fear, on the cracks in your armor.

“Not yet,” I say smoothly. “I’ll have it soon.”

“Soon,” Peter echoes, setting the knife down with a deliberate thud.

He slides the ring onto his own finger. “Too big, fat handed fuck.”

He tosses the ring onto the table. The light above swings slightly, casting shadows across his face that make him look even more monstrous.

“This man made promises he didn’t keep, Dmitri.” He gestures with a casual flick of his hand toward the heavy steel door behind me. “Open it.”

I don’t hesitate; showing weakness to Peter is never a good idea. I step to the door, the handle cold and slick in my grip.

When I pull it open, the stench hits me like a freight train—burnt flesh, blood, sweat, and something faintly chemical.

Inside, the dead man is strapped to a chair, his arms and legs bent at unnatural angles. His face is a swollen, bloody mess, barely recognizable as human.

Peter’s voice drifts in from behind me, conversational and cool. “Do you know why I choose to meet in this place, Dmitri?”

I glance back at him, my face unreadable. “Because it’s got convenient parking?”

He chuckles, low and throaty. “Because it’s honest. You walk in here, and you know exactly what it’s about. No pretense. No bullshit. Just flesh and bone and blood. That’s what we all are, in the end.”

Peter joins me, his knife spinning between his fingers again. “That is what happens to people who waste my time. You have no family. No friends. No one I can threaten you with. All I have is fear. You must fear something, Dmitri.”

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