Page 111 of Deadly Knight
“403. That’s my apartment number. Check the names on the leases for the surrounding apartments.” I rattle off numbers for the ones beneath, above, and on either side of me. If my guess is right, he’d be as close as possible.
Lev and Vanessa are talking back and forth in a tone that’s practically a murmur, and overlaid with my breathy pants as I all but run home, finally making it when Lev speaks louder, this time to me.
“303. Beneath yours. It’s registered to his name. Go there.”
Heart hammering, I stab my finger into the elevator button, willing the agonizingly slow decline of the numbers descending to quicken. Finally, the elevator dings, reaching the ground floor and I lunge inside, stabbing the shut button before anyone lingering in the lobby dares to join me.
“How do I get in?”
“Hopefully he’s there, so no breaking in will be necessary.” Vanessa’s tone doesn’t exactly strike confidence in me.
When reaching the correct floor, I find the apartment in the same place as mine is, one floor beneath. As I approach the door, my stomach does a somersault.
“Door’s open,” I whisper aloud, glancing up and down the empty hallway. “Cracked, like he never shut it.”
I approach slowly, knocking a fist against the door, wondering exactly how long it’s been like this. Dimitri wouldn’t accidentally leave his door unlocked and open where anyone could wander in, especially in this city. My gesture pushes the door open another inch and after a moment of tense silence, I enter.
“Shit.”
Not that I knew what this place looked like before, but I bet it didn’t look likethis. What little furniture there is—a couch and a table—has been knocked askew. The table’s flipped onto its side, the couch having lost its cushions. Clothes stream from the bedroom into the living room, as though kicked around.
“What’s there?” Vanessa’s urgent voice comes through the speaker.
“It’s a mess. Furniture’s flipped over.” I scan the room again, landing on something I missed the first time. “Wait, there’s something else.”
Stabbed into the couch’s backing with a switchblade is a ripped sheet of paper, black angry writing scrawled on it. I snap a picture of the scene to send to Vanessa before approaching and taking another of the note so they can read it themselves. Once sent off, with shaky hands, I dislodge the knife and read the note.
Volkov,
Sins of the father. Sins of the son.
Need we list your failures? Your father would never have allowed one of his own to be overthrown by his son. Dimitri deserves everything that is coming to him for attempting to destroy his own flesh and blood. The Bratva is nothing like it used to be.
You want your cousin, we want Ivan.
Find us, bring our next rightful Pakhan, and we’ll spare Dimitri.
This too is a test. How long will it take for you to realize he is missing? How long until you come and save him, knowing each day will bring him more and more pain? Take too long, and a corpse may be all that remains.
Signed,
The Bratva’s Elite
There’s a date scribbled on the bottom. He was takentwo weeks ago.
The paper flutters from my hand.
Two weeks of torture.
Two weeks of…fuck, I can’t even imagine. Nor do I want to.
I scan the room again, landing on the flipped table, but now also catching on the other little things. The dent by the door, the paint scratched on the far wall.
He fought. They came for him, and he fought.
“Katya? Katya!”
“I’m here.” Physically. Mentally and emotionally is another case.
