Page 3 of Ruthless Bratva King

She puts an arm around me. “Pack a bag. You’re staying at my place tonight.”

I blink at her. “Why?”

“Because there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you alone in this house with that”—she gestures at the wall—“looming over you and whoever wrote it still out there. North Shore’s on the way. We’ll call in and shove a firework up their useless asses.”

3

ELENA

The North Shore precinct looks like it was built in the 70s and left to rot ever since. Faded paint, flickering fluorescent lights, and a smell that’s equal parts stale coffee and despair.

Veronica and I sit side by side on the lumpy vinyl chairs in the waiting area, surrounded by cracked walls and a handful of bored officers. Veronica scrolls furiously on her phone. I’m too nervous to do the same.

“Anything?” I ask as she growls in frustration.

She shakes her head. “I’ve Googled every combination of ‘Bratva King,’ ‘crime,’ and ‘wall-carved warnings’ that I can think of. All I’m getting are Reddit threads about werewolves and bad B-movies.”

I sigh, leaning back. The chair squeaks obnoxiously. “So there’s nothing?”

“You’d think a guy with a nickname like ‘The Bratva King’ would have a Wikipedia page or something. What kind of self-respecting criminal doesn’t have a media presence?”

“Maybe he’s old-school. You know, the whole ‘leave no trace’ vibe.”

“Great. So you’re being stalked by a ghost with branding issues.”

I can’t help but snort, which earns me a disapproving glare from the officer behind the desk.

“You know,” Veronica says, leaning closer, “if we don’t get answers here, there’s always the library. Newspapers. Old crime reports.”

“You think the library’s going to have a section labeled ‘Russian wall carvers who the cops know about but no one else does’?”

“Libraries are pretty wild these days.”

“You’re only saying that because you had sex in one last week.”

She turns pink. “Not so loud.” She leans closer to my ear. “And it wasn’t sex; I just went down on him.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I’ve never in a million years gone on a date that ended with a blowjob in the Italian Cookery section.”

“It was Roman History, if you must know.”

“I should count myself lucky he didn’t take you up Pompeii.”

She winks. “I’m saving that for the second date. Seriously, this guy might be the one. Better than all those assholes I’ve dated before.”

“I hope so. You deserve a decent one for once.”

The door to the back office creaks open, and a tall, barrel-chested officer steps out. His name tag readsDodgson,but his expression screamsNot here to help.

“Elena Carlton?” he calls, looking around like he expects me to have gone already.

I stand, clutching my handbag tighter. Veronica squeezes my arm for reassurance before I follow Dodgson into a small, windowless room with a battered metal desk and two mismatched chairs.

The interrogation vibe is strong.

He doesn’t invite me to sit; he just drops into the chair behind the desk and starts flipping through a file. His indifference is palpable.

“Says here you reported your family missing,” he starts without looking up. “Family of adults?” He sighs. “Jimmy, 49, Alicia, 47, and Natalia, aged 24. Your family, right?”

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