Page 82 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

The sound of footsteps on the end of the gravel path draws my attention. I look up—and freeze.

There’s a man entering the park from the southern perimeter. He’s tall, thin, pale. A scar running jagged down his cheek.

And a contingent of bodyguards encircling him on all sides.

This is no politician. No run-of-the-mill rich bastard.

I know it in my bones—it’s him. The Butcher. The man I’m supposed to kill to earn my army.

I’m distantly aware of Gennady’s voice in my ear. “Dima? You there?”

But I ignore it.

I’ve hunted for weeks to get close to this son of a bitch. And now he juststrollsright into my goddamn line of sight?

Part of me is wary. Is this a trap? A setup?

But the other part of me has a gut feeling that this is no ploy. This is the real thing. Opportunity falling into my lap through sheer dumb luck.

The squadron of men meanders past me without sparing so much as a glance in my direction. I watch them go. The knife in my pocket is pressing into my thigh like it knows the time is now.

All I have to do is get through one, maybe two of those bodyguards. Then I’ll be on The Butcher before he knows what to do.

This is it. This is the moment.

Kill the bastard.

Lead my brother’s army back to New York.

Reclaim what’s mine.

They round the bend in the park. I start to get up. My breath coming quick as adrenaline surges through me.

And then I hear it—Gennady’s voice roaring on the phone. “Dima! Dima!”

I pause, raise it back to my ear, and growl, “What?”

He’s breathless. “Dima, I just got a text. The man we hired in Chicago… he found her.”

I freeze. My blood goes from burning hot to icy cold in an instant. “What did you just say?”

“He found her, Dima. He found Arya.”

26

Arya

The Home Of Underboss Taras Kreshnik—Chicago

The men are in the drawing room. That’s where they always go after their dinners. They drink, smoke, laugh in a way that’s almost scornful. I never knew laughter could be so full of hate.

I never knew a house could be so full of hate, either. This whole mansion is brimming with it. Like it lives in the walls. Percolates throughout the air.

Hate.

Anger.

And most of all, fear.

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