Page 79 of Ruthless Bratva King

Peter chuckles and shakes his head. “Of course, it’s not the statue I’m interested in right now. It’s your loyalty—or lack thereof.”

He straightens, his tone sharpening as he points a finger at Dmitri. “You lied to me, Dmitri. Lied about the statue. Liedabout Elena. Lied about her family. It wasn’t Lombardi who left you that little message on their wall. That was me.”

A flicker of something—a barely perceptible reaction—crosses Dmitri’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

Peter steps closer, his voice lowering. “It was a test. A reminder of who you are. Or who you’re supposed to be.” He tilts his head, his smile venomous. “And you failed spectacularly. They ran. You didn’t give chase. What kind of a hunter are you?”

Peter turns to me briefly, gesturing dismissively. “See, Elena, our friend Dmitri here is supposed to be one of the best. Ruthless. Efficient. Loyal to a fault.”

He swivels back to Dmitri, his smirk deepening. “But instead of doing what you were hired to do, you’ve been letting me down.”

He sneers the words, letting them hang in the air like poison.

“Attachment,” Peter continues, “is the ultimate weakness. It clouds your judgment. Makes you hesitate. Turns killers into sentimental fools.” His gaze hardens. “And it makes you unfit to lead. Didn’t I teach you anything?”

Dmitri finally moves, his hands sliding into his pants pockets. His voice is calm, even bored. “You finished?”

Peter bristles at the lack of reaction, his irritation flaring. “You think this is funny? I’ve given you every opportunity to prove you’re still worthy of my trust, and instead?—”

“Look at the statue,” Dmitri interrupts quietly, his words cutting through Peter’s tirade like a blade.

Peter pauses, his expression twisting into a mixture of annoyance and suspicion. “What?”

“The statue,” Dmitri repeats, his gaze steady. “Take a closer look.”

56

DMITRI

“What’s this?” Peter asks, plucking the folded note taped to the base of the statue. His fingers twitch as he opens it, his smirk growing wider with each passing second.

He reads aloud, his voice dripping with mockery. “I resign?” He shakes his head. “What is this bullshit?

I keep my voice steady, my tone as cold and detached as he has always expected from me. “You taught me well,” I say. “Never get attached to anything, not even the job.”

The shift in Peter’s expression is subtle—a flicker of confusion, a shadow of suspicion crossing his face. It’s too late. “I’d like to know your plan,” he says, sounding irritated.

“The statue’s a fake. You let us leave together or you never get the real thing back.”

Peter looks furious for a moment but then he grins, shaking his head. “Bullshit. This is the real thing.” He moves it up to his face, examining it closely. “I’d know the real thing anywhere.”

My thumb presses down on the hidden button in my pocket.

With a sharp hiss of released pressure, the concealed spike shoots out from the face of the statue. The deadly metal rod pierces Peter’s eye in an instant.

His scream is cut off before it begins as he collapses to the floor, lifeless, his body crumpled like a discarded puppet.

“Told him it was a fake,” I say to his bodyguards.

My gun is already in my hand. Four precise shots ring out in rapid succession. Terence’s head snaps back, blood spraying against the wall behind him.

His sidekick doesn’t even have time to draw his weapon before he crumples to the ground, clutching at the crimson bloom on his chest.

The other two get their hands on their weapons but too slow. They drop to the floor an instant later.

The room falls into silence, broken only by the sound of Elena’s sharp, uneven breaths.

She’s still tied to the chair, her eyes wide, flicking between the lifeless body of Peter and the cooling corpses of his guards. Her chest heaves as she struggles to comprehend what just happened.

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