Page 127 of Dirty Grovel

I’m nowhere near done with the asshole when the doors to my office burst open and Artem runs inside with several of myvors.

“Oleg!” Artem yells as I try to sidestep him to land another hit on Matvey. “Oleg, stop! Enough!”

I know why he’s stopping me. As tempting as it is, I can’t kill the motherfucker without escalating the already fraught situation.

Coming to blows is inevitable; we both knew that.

But I’m not the stubborn, violently inclined young man I used to be. My pride is tempered by something far greater.

Honor and duty.

To Sutton and my unborn child.

Artem gets in between us as three of my men restrain Matvey and drag him to his feet. Two more have their weapons pointed right at his head.

Matvey looks like a beaten corpse, the way he hangs limply between my soldiers, his face unrecognizable. His left eye isswollen so badly you can barely see it. His nose will need a full reconstruction and blood paints the bottom half of his face like a muzzle.

If you ask me, it’s an improvement.

I push Artem’s hands off me and take a step towards Matvey, who snarls at me like a rabid dog.

“Another word from you and I will give the order to my men to pull the trigger,” I warn him. “Now, listen closely. You will be allowed to walk out of here with your life. Consider it a debt you owe me. But I expect you to take a message to your father.”

I wait pointedly and after a long few seconds, Matvey jerks his head in a tiny nod.

“He has twenty-four hours to hand over Drew Anton or else I’ll interpret your actions here today as a declaration of war between the Martineks and the Pavlov Bratva. And trust me, motherfucker: None of you will survive it.”

I hold his gaze steadily, making sure he understands what I refuse to say out loud.

No one threatens my woman and gets to walk away unscathed.

39

SUTTON

I cast a sour look over the apartment that Sydney simplyhadto see. Because, according to her, she doesn’t want to be the “third wheel” in my “Palm Beach fairy tale.”

Which is ridiculous. She’s never minded before. So why start now?

Particularly when that “Palm Beach fairy tale” comes with fifteen thousand square feet of luxury real estate.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe living in said luxury property has turned me into a snob, but I can’t help turning my nose up at the cramped, squalid, windowless studio apartment that Syd is examining like it’s actually a viable candidate.

It’s on the ground floor of a dodgy building in an even dodgier neighborhood. Zero amenities, zero security. There are claw marks in practically every room in the house and the bathtub sports weird stains that look suspiciously like blood someone tried and failed to scrub out.

Sydney emerges from the bathroom, looking unnecessarily cheery. “Pretty decent, don’t you think?”

“Are you high?” I blurt out, right in front of the two-bit realtor she found from God knows where.

The realtor gives me a scorned look.

I ignore him and walk over to Sydney. “You can’t seriously be considering this place.”

“Why not?” she says, examining the rusty hinges on the cupboards as though they’re coated in silver. “I think it has potential.”

“Potential to make you suicidal, sure. As evidenced by the stains in the bathtub. Do we know what happened to the last tenant?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re being melodramatic. It’s not that bad.”

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