Page 36 of Ruthless Bratva King

He doesn’t look at me. For him, it’s over. But for me, the image of his ruthlessness is seared into my mind.

Forever.

Dmitri glances my way. “I got sloppy,” he says to himself. “Should have checked his pulse.”

“Dmitri,” I whisper. “What are you?”

He turns to me, his expression unreadable but his eyes blazing with intensity.

“You’re safe now,” he says, his voice low and steady, as if to calm a startled animal.

But I’m anything but calm. My hands tremble at my sides, and my knees feel like they might give out. The sheer violence of what I just witnessed—it terrifies me.

And yet, some part of me—the part that responds to Dmitri’s commanding presence and unwavering control—isn’t afraid of him.

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch my arm. “Look at me, Elena.”

I lift my eyes to his, finding them softer now, though still sharp and focused.

“You’re with me now,” he says quietly, his tone firm but protective. “No one else will touch you. Do you understand?”

I nod, though I’m not sure I do. My emotions are a chaotic swirl of fear, confusion, and something darker, something more forbidden.

Dmitri picks up the discarded gun and tucks it into the back of his waistband. Then he wraps an arm around my shoulders.

I should be horrified. I should run. But instead, I find myself leaning into him as he kisses my forehead.

He steps back from me. “Wait in the bar. I need to clean up this mess.”

27

DMITRI

There’s a dead man on the floor of the elevator, and as much as I want to lose myself in Elena’s scent and softness, I have a job to do.

“Igor,” I call out, my voice sharp and cutting through the muted hum of the lobby.

The lobby boy appears almost instantly, stepping from the shadows near the concierge desk like a ghost.

He’s young, maybe twenty, with a face too innocent for this world, but his eyes give him away.

Sharp, observant, and unflinching as they land on the lifeless body crumpled inside the elevator. “Yes, Mr. Chekov?” he says.

“Fetch Vladimir,” I order.

“At once,” he replies, already moving. Not a flicker of hesitation. He’s been trained well.

The elevator hums softly, its gentle music incongruous with the scene inside. I step into the cramped space, kneeling beside the corpse.

The man’s face is slack, his neck twisted unnaturally. He doesn’t look like much now, but the weight of his presence lingers.

Lombardi’s men normally operate in pairs. I took one out last night. The question is how they got into an Ivanov hotel.

I tug the wallet from his inner jacket pocket and flip it open. A crisp leather billfold, worn but expensive. Inside, an ID stares back at me. Italian. Name: Pietro Monticello. Age: Forty-two.

Footsteps echo softly from the marble floors behind me. I don’t look up.

“One of Lombardi’s,” I say, holding out the ID as Vladimir steps into the elevator.

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