Page 3 of Violent Love: Viktor
Petrov didn’t know it yet, but when he signed that contract, he signed his death warrant.
Chapter 2
Viktor
TheKrolikwas masterful in her craft. Not only had she provided us with a blueprint of the hotel, she’d also marked every camera inside and out. We had a full entry and exit route planned, avoiding them all. A few traffic cameras couldn’t be helped, but the vehicle would be switched out before extraction.
Ania had input our fake reservations, and she’d assured me the staff would hand over the keycard for Petrov’s room. There was nothing she hadn’t thought of. The more I came to admire her, the deeper my regret grew for how I’d treated her when we first met. Back then, she was a threat to my Pakhan—a risk I couldn’t ignore.
I nodded to Sergei and Abrasha when I got the text confirming the hotel cameras were down. We’d be in and out like ghosts. And with a bit of luck, I’d get a few hits in before we carted the bastard off in the laundry trolley. Sergei remained in the alley as we moved quickly to the main entrance.
Abrasha handled reception. I headed up the stairs to wait in the hallway. My face was too memorable to risk exposure. The thought of dragging Petrov back to my operating room sent a hum through my chest. There were so many methods I’d yet to test—too many beautiful ways to make a man scream.
When Abrasha approached, grinning, I knew it was on. The cameras were down, and the keycard had been forged. Now, it was time for the fun part.
“Go grab the laundry cart from the service room,” I said, taking the white card from his outstretched hand.
“No blood,” he warned.
I rolled my eyes. Why did everyone think I couldn’t control myself?
Then again, I had shot or stabbed plenty of people just for answering too slowly. Abrasha wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t a street rat or rival crew member—this was a high-ranking politician. I let out a breath and slid the card into the gold-plated slot. The light blinked green. The lock clicked open.
The lavish bastard had taken the state suite. I could hear the telly blaring from the other side of the room.
No blood.
I pulled out the syringe and crept past the smaller bedroom. The telly was still going, but Petrov wasn’t in sight. I found him in the main bedroom, back to me, fumbling with his towel. I stepped behind him, towering over him. The cap came off the needle. I drove it into his neck.
“What—” he managed, before dropping.
Rage burned through me. It only took seconds. I kicked him hard while he was down.
Then came the gasp.
I looked up.
A maid stood in the bathroom doorway, blue gloves on, towels and a spray bottle in her arms. Her black uniform made the white towels in her hands pop. Her eyes widened when she saw the needle in my hand. She backed into the bathroom.
I lunged, jamming my foot in the doorway as she screamed and tried to slam it shut. One shove, and she was on the floor. I stepped inside. She scrambled to her hands and knees, trying to crawl back.
Her dark hair was twisted at the nape of her neck. When she lifted her face, her eyes were a fucked-up blend of pale green and brown. The moment she saw my scars, her fear turned to full-blown terror.
I clocked her name tag.
“Natalya,” I murmured, tossing the used syringe into the bath behind her. I drew my gun.“This is unfortunate.”
“No, please—”
I pressed the barrel into her cheek. Soft, perfect skin. Flawless. She could’ve been twenty, maybe thirty—I was shit at guessing ages—but seeing her kneeling in front of me made my mind flash to Ania. Those days in the Pakhan’s office. Bunny tail plug, masked, and silent.
I cocked the gun. Her eyes welled. When the tears spilled, she squeezed them shut. That was when I saw the small pool spreading across the tiled floor.
Piss.
She’d pissed herself in fear. Most men would’ve recoiled—embarrassed, disgusted, but I wasn’t most men. I watched the pool spread, soaking into the floor, her body trembled as if she could shiver her way invisible.
Her fear was beautiful.
