Page 33 of Scarred (Russian Sinners 2)

“No, everything is good and no issues,” he answered. “Katja asked Olivia to join her and her boyfriend on Friday evening. How many men should we have with her?”

She wouldn’t appreciate being crowded. “Have two men follow her discreetly. Let her have her space but ensure she is safe first and foremost. From anyone.”

“Understood.”

She trusted me by letting me place her into my home. I wouldn’t not let anything happen to her on my watch.

“I’ll check in tomorrow,” I told him. “Call if anything arises or needs my attention.”

I felt exhaustion creep up on me. I haven’t had much sleep in the last week. Luckily the private plane I flew back in had a bedroom. I didn’t sleep, but was able to at least shut my eyes and rest for a few hours.

I leaned back against the seat of the limo closing my eyes. I was on my way back to meet up with Oliver and Ilya. I couldn’t erase the image of Olivia out of my mind. Her blue eyes reminded me of deep oceans, and I just wanted to drown in them. There was such a deceptive calm in them. If she let herself go, instead of keeping her tightly wound appearance, I marveled at the intensity we’d experience together.

Would she enjoy my darker tastes? Or would she run scared?

It wouldn’t surprise me if she did, not if she experienced what Malcome was capable of. It infuriated me to even imagine the abuse she would have endured under Malcome Schmidt. But I hoped that black eye was the worst of it.

His abuse went beyond sickness. He was perverted and twisted, enjoying torturing his victims for his own pleasure. He disliked giving pleasure. True pain and scars in his partners was what gave him satisfaction. I didn’t want to think if she had to experience even worse abuse than his fist. I saw the scars on Nadia’s dead body firsthand. They were etched into my brain and made me sick to my stomach. I wished she told me about him, asked me for help. I would have dropped it all to help her but instead, I found out when it was too late. The guilt weighed heavy on my shoulders. I kept looking back, trying to remember if there were signs I had missed.

The winters were bitter cold in Moscow. I could feel the chill right down to my bones, although I wasn’t sure if it was this place or the actual cold. Mud and dirt stained the snow piled on the side of the roads, making the scene depressing. There was nothing beautiful about a white winter day in Moscow.

With heavy dread in the pit of my stomach, I made my way into the grey building. It was the coroner’s building; nobody ever wanted to step foot into it. Everything seemed surreal from the moment I received the call two days ago.

“We need you to come and identify the body of a woman,” the words still echoed in my brain.

I’d been dialing Nadia ever since, hoping it was all a mistake. When there was no answer, I called her friends. But they all informed me of the same thing; she hasn’t been coming around. They hadn’t seen her in months. Fear unlike any other was a long-forgotten feeling. Where was my niece? Where was Nadia?

“This way, Mr. Smirnov.” The coroner led me down the dark, grey hallway. It still didn’t sink in. It couldn’t be my sister here; I hoped it wasn’t my sister in this place. Let it be anyone but my sister.

We finally stopped and entered a room. The air conditioning ran, making the room cold although it was below freezing outside. I wore a long, black trench coat, and although it might have made me appear sophisticated and rich; this man that led me to the morgue knew better. There was no escaping my ruthlessness. It was edged on my face, and the scar was only a small part of it.

A body laid on a table in the center of the room, a white sheet covering it. There was no mistaking it, it was a woman’s body. The shape was too round and too small to be anything but a woman.

Let it be anyone but my sister, the prayer left me again.

The hope was squashed in the same instance. The sheet was removed to reveal Nadia’s grey face, her lips a striking blue bruise against her pale white face. I’d seen plenty of dead people in my lifetime and it never bothered me before. But this time, I felt nauseated and the need to empty the contents of my stomach. But I shoved it all down, swallowing the bile in my throat. This would be the last time I saw her face.

The coroner only revealed her face, her neck barely peeking but I saw it. Strangle marks!

I took a step forward, taking the sheet between my fingers and pulling it further down. Rage shot through me, blinding me to everything and everyone. My sister’s body was an endless sheet of bruises, cuts, and whip marks.

“I thought you said she drowned,” my voice was cold, void of any emotions.

“We found her in the river.” The coroner’s voice was low. He was shitting his pants.

I raised my eyes to him; the killer in me demanding revenge.

“I won’t repeat myself again,” I gritted through my teeth, covering my sister’s body back up.

“All evidence points to an abusive relationship,” he muttered, his breath visible in the cold room. “The police demanded to close the case on the basis of accidental drowning.”

“And she decided to go for a swim in the dead winter,” I spat. I knew my anger was misplaced but unfortunately for this bastard, he was the only living creature in this room with me.

“Initially, they wanted it deemed a suicide,” his voice was shaking. “I told them those wounds cannot pass as self-inflicted. Specially on her back.”

Silence lingered with the heavy meaning. The scars I saw were only the surface; there were many more.

“I want your full report,” I demanded, cold resolution in my voice. “Official and unofficial.”

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