Page 20 of Sexting the Boss

Dmitry’s throat bobs violently. “It wasn’t—wasn’t like that, I swear?—”

I click my tongue. “You are not a good liar.”

Oleg stands behind me, arms folded, unmoving, his face carved from stone.

There are no second chances in the Bratva.

There is only loyalty.

Or there is death.

I let the moment stretch, watching the terror crawl over his features, let it settle in his bones, before finally, I pull the gun away.

He sags in relief, chest heaving.

Poor bastard.

He thinks I’ll let him live.

“You have a family, don’t you?” I ask casually, slipping my gun back into its holster.

Dmitry nods quickly, like that might save him. “Yes—yes. A wife. A son.”

A son.

I exhale through my nose, staring down at him. I wonder if he’s thinking about his child now. If he’s thinking of all the excuses he told himself before he made his choice.

I crouch again, resting my forearms on my knees.

“Tell me something,” I murmur. “If your son grew up and betrayed you the way you betrayed me…what would you do?”

Dmitry’s face crumples.

He doesn’t answer, because he knows.

There’s only one answer.

I nod, as if that settles it. Then I stand, stepping back. “Oleg.”

Oleg moves without hesitation, a gloved hand reaching for the knife strapped to his belt.

Dmitry’s scream barely makes it past his lips before Oleg silences him, a clean slice across the throat.

The sound is wet, gurgling, then?—

Nothing.

Just the soft drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the concrete floor.

Oleg steps back, wiping the blade clean with a practiced flick of his wrist.

I exhale, flexing my fingers, and then I turn and walk out of the warehouse.

Oleg follows.

Neither of us speaks as we step back into the cold night air. The city still hums in the distance, oblivious. The sky is ink-black, the scent of salt and rust thick in the air.

The car is waiting. Oleg opens the door, and I slide in, my body settling into the leather seat, but my mind is somewhere else.

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