Page 6 of One of Them

I mentally slapped myself for not even thinking about the bodies and the evidence we left behind.

“Your guys?” I chuckled, trying to keep the disbelief in check. “Are you from the higher ranks?”

The man shrugged with casual indifference. “You could say that.”

“How high?” I pressed, attempting to piece together a profile that matched what I knew.

“Like, the highest.”

“Fuuuck,” I muttered under my breath. The connection clicked into place, his face completing the puzzle.

Ilya Aistov, the Pakhan of the Russian Bratva.

He was young, having just taken over after his father’s death, whose reign had been one of the shortest in history. Now it all made sense. How naive of me not to see the connection. Hours spent behind the computer, researching, only for me to waltz right under their noses. I had a long way to go, I thought.

I gathered Ilya was someone important from the number of bodies constantly surrounding him like a shield, but I’d pictured the boss working out somewhere private, not in a bustling downtown gym.

I observed the way his hands rested on the steering wheel, silently wondering how many lives they’d taken. For the first time, I came close to the danger I’d been chasing, getting a literal front-row seat.

But when I glanced at my hands next, they were clean, not a speck of dirt in sight. Where his knuckles were busted, bruising covering the skin, mine were pale, healed thanks to the miracle cream I bought in Chinatown.

I wondered what the lady behind the counter had for healing the mind, for it seemed my recent actions only left a mark there.

When the car drove out of the city, panic hit me, my throat closing too quickly. I had long forgotten the kill; this was about survival. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Everything got too real, too fast. I needed more time. So much more time.

I motioned to the sidewalk as we drove and turned to the driver. “You can drop me off here.” Desperate to escape the situation, I yanked on the door handle.

Ilya refused, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. Let’s take this to my place,” he insisted. His words only fed my growing irritation. My head spun towards him, hands flying in the air between us.

“What is there to talk about?”

“About your potential,” he raised his voice, making his point final.

“It’s happening. Stop fighting it.” A grunt formed in my throat, but I swallowed it this time. His tone, though commanding, wasn’t the main reason behind my compliance.

Let’s just say if I were a cat, I’d be dead.

Soon, we were approaching an iron gate at the edge of the city. The driveway itself could have its own postcode. That’s how far it stretched from the road. The quality of the road shifted, the familiar crunch of tires fading as we neared.

Money and wealth never impressed me, but if they did, this would’ve had me wowing. The house stood tall in the distance, its white bricks, towering columns, and endless windows looking out over the grounds. The vibe screamed old money with modern touches, its leadership etched into the very walls.

Ilya didn’t reach for a remote or button to open the entrance. Instead, he pulled up close to a structure on the left. The automatic light flickered on, and three men emerged, dressed in black tactical gear. Splitting up, two of them circled the car, their movements visible in the wing mirror as they peered through the tinted windows, scanning the vehicle.

The third man leaned in on Ilya’s side. His head appeared in the lowered window, filling the interior with the thick smoke of a hand-rolled cigarette. The gun strapped to his chest was well concealed but still made its presence known.

A guard post.

I highly doubt the postal carrier delivered to the Bratva daily. If they did, kudos for their courage and athletic form.

Ilya waited as the lead guard checked in with his colleagues, then signaled for us to proceed. Once past the massive gate, my mind raced to figure out what I had gotten myself into. Or rather, how I was going to get out.

The car stopped in front of the main entrance, where a grandiose double door was tended by a butler. He had it wide open before we even set foot on the ground, no doubt informed by the guards of his employer’s arrival. The crisp air I enjoyed touching my face during this season didn’t even reach me when I got out of the car. We walked from warmth to warmth without effort.

“My guys,” I remembered Ilya calling them. One for everything.

The interior was everything you’d expect a home of the wealthy and powerful to be, but I didn’t dwell. I scanned the space for an exit, looking for anything to help me escape the situation.

Ilya walked down the hall to what appeared to be his office, heading for a plush chair tucked behind a mahogany desk. Without guidance from the host, I settled on the nearest couch. The man appeared comfortable in my presence, his feet outstretched as he leaned over the desk, pressing a button on the phone. Instantly, another person entered the room and headed directly for Ilya. He whispered something I was not to overhear, allowing me to study them, starting with the newcomer, a raven-haired man in casual clothes.

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