Page 37 of Ruthless Bratva King

He takes the ID, his lips pursing as he studies the name. Always composed, always smooth, he folds the ID back into the wallet with the same deliberation he gives to signing contracts worth millions. He hands it back to me without a word.

“Lombardi sent him to his death,” Vladimir murmurs, his voice low and measured. “Imagine thinking we wouldn’t notice.”

“This one got too close,” I reply, rising to my feet. “You need to increase security.”

“I know. There’s two more in the bar right now.”

“The bar?” I think of where I just sent Elena, thinking she’d be safe. “Plan C, get moving.”

Vladimir’s sharp eyes flick to mine, curiosity glinting, but he knows better than to argue. Instead, he straightens his tie, smooths the lapels of his tailored suit, and nods. “It will be done. What about the other two?”

“I’ll deal with them now.”

He turns on his heel and strides out of the elevator, already barking orders to Igor as he passes. “Screen the elevators. Ensure all surveillance is wiped then inform the police we found a body. Move quickly.”

Igor nods, disappearing down the corridor with the precision of a shadow.

I take one last look at the body. A seasoned hitman reduced to this. I’ve sent plenty of men to meet their end, but this one bothers me in a way I can’t shake.

Not because of him, but because of her.

Elena.

Her wide eyes as the elevator doors closed. The way she trusted me to protect her, even though she knows nothing about me. She saw me kill a man. That terror in her eyes was genuine. She thinks I’m a monster.

She’s right.

28

DMITRI

The bar is dimly lit, a haze of soft amber light glowing from sconces along the walls. It’s busy, voices blending into a low hum, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter.

I scan the space before I’ve taken more than two steps inside.

My eyes are drawn to her immediately; my first mistake. She’s seated near the far wall in a plush armchair, a delicate glass of white wine balanced between her fingers.

Her hair catches the light, glowing faintly, and the black of her dress makes her look like she stepped off a movie set.

She’s stunning. And on edge.

Even from across the room, I can see it in the way she grips her glass, her knuckles faintly white. Her gaze flickers toward me as soon as I enter, but she doesn’t move.

Her composure is remarkable, but I know better. Beneath that calm exterior, she’s rattled.

I want to comfort her. Mistake two.

I walk over to her and I’m halfway there before my instincts start working again.

Two men, seated at the bar. Their postures are too straight, their eyes too sharp. While everyone else around them laughs or leans into easy conversations, these two are hyperaware of the room.

One stirs his drink absently, the other pretends to scroll on his phone. Their jackets, despite their effort to blend in, sit awkwardly, bulging slightly at the waist. Guns.

They’re Lombardi’s men. No doubt about it.

My jaw tightens. They must’ve come in through the back. Vladimir’s getting sloppy with his security detail. Four men in two days have infiltrated a Bratva hotel. That has never happened. Shows how much Lombardi wants the statue. Throwing away his best men into the lion’s den.

I push the anger down. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is Elena. Getting her to safety.

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