Page 80 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

Then an anonymous shove in the back sends me stumbling down the stairs. I hit the wall, headfirst, and wince in pain.

No one stops to ask if I’m okay. No one fucking cares.

More unseen hands propel me down the hallway. One of the guards in black takes hold of me by the crook of my elbow.

“Time to meet your new owner, sweetheart,” he hisses sourly in my ear.

And just like that, I’m on my way to hell.

25

Dima

Six Weeks Later—Evening—Burnham Park In Chicago

Six weeks.

Six. Fucking. Weeks.

I shouldn’t still be in Chicago. I should be back in New York City beating Zotov Stepanov into a fucking pulp.

But nothing has gone according to plan.

For six long weeks, I’ve plagued this city like a ghost. I’ve cornered and beaten down every low-level mob fuck I can find. Looking for clues. Looking for answers. Looking for a way to get to the man I’m supposed to kill.

And it’s all been for fucking nothing.

Apparently, The Butcher is goddamn untouchable.

The man I’m supposed to kill changes safehouses monthly. Never hangs out at the same place two nights in a row. He cycles through bodyguards relentlessly, a fresh crop of them every week. His security is airtight. I haven’t gotten so much as a look at the bastard.

All I have is a bullet with his name on it and nowhere to fire.

It’s the most frustrating goddamn thing I’ve ever done in my life. Since the day I took over the Romanoff Bratva, if I wanted a man dead, all I had to do was snap my fingers and his head would be delivered to me on a silver platter before the sun was down.

But Zotov stole that from me.

I’m back to what I was when I started all those years ago—a lone wolf.

As I wait and hunt, I try not to think about Arya and Lukas. Not because I don’t care. And not because I’m not looking for them.

But because when I think about them, I see red. Blood pulses behind my eyes, my fists clench, and I can’t function without wanting to throttle someone. None of those reactions are conducive to getting shit done.

I’m not used to these emotions. Usually, I compartmentalize. I control. But with this, I can’t rein my anger in.

My son and his mother are missing and I don’t have the power and reach of my Bratva at my fingertips to remedy the situation.

Instead, my key resources are being controlled by a reckless, spineless fuck who hasn’t had the courage to come out of hiding in six weeks.

If Zotov had reared his head, Gennady would know where he is by now. We would have formulated a plan for how to get rid of him.

As it is, we have to wait.

And I’m getting very fucking sick of waiting.

As if on cue, my phone rings. It’s Gennady. I lean back against the park bench where I’m sitting and answer his call.

“You have news?” I bark.

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