Page 18 of Sexting the Boss

When Dmitry’s body is cooling in a forgotten warehouse?—

I think I just might text back.

* * *

The car ride is silent.

Not because Oleg and I don’t have things to say.

But because some things don’t need to be spoken.

The city moves around us, lights flashing past in a blur of neon and shadows. The tinted windows of the black Mercedes-Maybach keep us hidden, untouched by the outside world.

I run a hand over my jaw, rolling my shoulders. The last remnants of whatever I felt from earlier is gone.

This? This is what I know.

Not whispered confessions over text.

Not a stranger teasing me through a phone.

This—violence, control, consequences—this is what I was born into.

“Where is he?” I ask, breaking the silence.

Oleg doesn’t glance away from the road. “Dock seventeen. Warehouse is cleared. No security feeds.”

Good.

I tip my head back against the headrest, exhaling slowly.

Dmitry fucking Morozov. A man who knew exactly what he was doing the moment he sold us out to the Albanians.

There are rules in the Bratva. And loyalty is the first and last of them.

It was drilled into me before I even knew how to hold a gun. Before I knew that my last name isn’t just a name, it is my legacy. My father made sure of that.

He built this empire brick by brick, bullet by bullet, and when he died, it fell to me.

Not because I wanted it. But because there was no other choice.

You don’t walk away from the Bratva.

Not when you’re born into it.

Not when your name is Zaitsev.

The car slows as we approach the docks, the road growing emptier, darker. The only sounds are the waves crashing in the distance and the occasional hum of a passing ship.

Oleg parks, cuts the engine, and we step out.

The night air is cold, biting against my skin as we walk toward the warehouse. A single bulb flickers above the rusted door, casting long shadows along the cracked pavement.

The door creaks as Oleg pulls it open, revealing the dimly lit interior.

And there, tied to a metal chair, blood dripping from his split lip?—

Is Dmitry.

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