Page 40 of British Bratva: A Russian Mafia Romance

I dumped him down in the middle of the rooms I’d been watching him from.

I’d get him out in a roll of wall insulation. Drive him out to one of our associate’s facilities. A pig farm out in Essex. Those teeth go straight through bone like butter and they gobble up everything in their way. Coming out as pig shit is the kind of end a man like him deserves.

Pork’s a meat I don’t eat any longer.

Elizabeth

The building was no business address. The front door opened into a communal hall, and I followed the winding staircase up, through the plushly carpeted hall to the entrance door.

This was a level up from any apartment building I’d ever been in before. I was almost surprised that the key worked in the lock, but it turned smoothly, and just as Maxim had said, there was the low beep of an alarm.

I found the entry pad inside like he said, and keyed in the code, holding my breath until the beeping subsided with a double beep of a lower tone.

Only then did I let myself look around.

The hallway was broad and spacious with an immaculate hall table with an impossibly shiny wooden top that I didn’t dare touch in case of leaving smudge marks all over it.

At first glance, I thought the place was unoccupied, but as I walked through, I began to notice little things that had been left around, signs of humanity, occupation.

In the shoe rack that went along one wall of the hall, there were a variety of men’s shoes. All very large. I saw a pair of workboots I’d first seen Maxim wearing – the same ones. There was a splatter of plaster dried over the toe of the left boot.

Into the large lounge, with painted panels on the wall and high, high ceilings, someone had moved the cushions on the sofa to make a more comfortable nest.

I could imagine him here, stretched out in front of the fireplace, looking up at the paintings hanging on the walls that showed Russian landscapes in the snow. I peered in at the canvasses, getting up close to the swirled strokes in the thick oil paint, wondering how old they were. And how expensive.

Was Maxim staying here, or did he own it?

Maybe his interest in shutting Pierce up was even more personal than I’d thought.

The kitchen was immaculate. The fridge was empty and so was the freezer, except for a bottle of vodka and an unopened bag of peas.

The next room over was probably meant to be a bedroom, but it was set out as a gym with a treadmill and a rowing machine as well as free weights lining the walls. Underneath the scent of orange oil, there was a definite musk in the room that reminded me of the scent of him up close in the ring.

I let out a hum, aware that just the memory of that had my nipples tensing.

This time I had the advantage. I could stroll through Maxim’s home and pick through his things, learn everything about him from what was on display.

Only, there wasn’t much to take a read from.

His bedroom was sharply masculine and minimalist to a flaw. Dark sheets on a low bed frame. It suited him.

I wondered whether he ever let those sheets get rumpled.

I was bloody well going to give that a shot. Because after today, we were inextricably bound together, and I knew there was never going to be a man who was more perfectly meant for me.

No one else would have closed their hands around mine and let me pull the trigger. No one else would be cleaning up the mess I’d left without a second thought.

I opened the wardrobe casually, peering at his boxer briefs with a secret thrill.

His clothes were immaculate, hanging neatly in the closet, ranging from incredibly expensive to incredibly ordinary. There was nothing flashy. Nothing evidently brand new.

He had a selection box of wrist watches on his dressing table – everything from a cheap Sekonda with a plastic strap, to expensive technical diving watches by brands I’d never heard of. No Rolex. He had a Tag Heuer, pristine and shiny. I wasn’t exactly surprised.

I imagined killing people to order was a job that paid well enough to make it worth his while.

But what caught my eye the most was the understated, sleek Larsson and Jennings gold-rimmed black watch with a set of interchangeable leather and metal link straps. I’d peered in the window of their little shop in Seven Dials on more than one occasion, impressed by their modern, minimalist designs.

These were the watches of a man who knew the power of blending in. I wondered which one he chose when he was choosing for himself.

He had a box of cufflinks to rival the watches. No common theme.

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