Page 93 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

I start to inch around towards the door. Not to run—but to prevent this bastard from escaping what’s about to happen.

“I’m meeting with Erik Arnaud,” I say coolly, tossing my paper towel in the trash can and shifting another inch towards the door to block his exit. “Or rather, I’m supposed to be. He didn’t show.”

“Why the fuck would someone like you be meeting with a nobody like Erik?” He’s just drunk enough to be brutally honest. Perfect.

“Tell me where I can find him and I’ll fill you in.”

He opens his mouth for a moment, considering, but then he shakes his head. “Nah, man. I can’t tell you shit. You shouldn’t even be in here.”

“Wrong answer.”

I ball up my fist and jab him in the throat. He gags and stumbles back against the tiled wall in shock and pain.

I follow him, pinning him to the tiled wall with both hands.

He reaches up to try and free my hands from around my neck, but even stone-cold sober, I’d be able to overpower him. He’s blubbery and slow, like a walrus on two legs.

He doesn’t stand a fucking chance.

I dodge a few misplaced kicks, angling my lower half away to avoid getting kicked in the balls, and squeeze harder.

I’ve killed people with my bare hands before. It’s not the most efficient way to get the job done, but it certainly requires less equipment.

And it’s quiet. No one in the bar will know a thing. As soon as the man is dead, I’ll shove him in a closet and leave.

By the time they find him, I’ll be long gone.

His movements grow weaker. His fingers scratch at my hand, but I barely feel it. There’s too much adrenaline pumping in my veins for him to hurt me right now.

As his legs give out, I lower him to the floor while maintaining a strong grip around his neck. My hands start to throb. There’s a lot of neck to choke on this fat pig.

But I keep going. So many people stop strangling before the person is dead. To do it right takes several minutes. I intend to do this right.

Until I hear voices in the hallway.

There’s a chance it’s a bar employee going into the kitchen. But based on how loud they’re being, I’m guessing they are drunk patrons coming into the bathroom. And I’m squatting on the floor with my hands around an unconscious mobster’s neck.

“Durak neschastnyi,”I curse in Russian.

I have to act quickly.

I grab the man’s limp arms and drag him across the sticky bathroom floor to a stall. The doors here go all the way down to the floor, thank the fucking Lord, so there’s no risk someone will see this asshole’s body puddled beneath the crack.

I step us both inside and pull the door closed just as the bathroom door opens. A pair of voices follows.

“I need a goddamn line,” the first man rumbles.

“You and me both, brother,” agrees the second.

“Today has been one shit storm after another. Ever since the boss moved back to New York, I’ve been managing the business here, right?”

The other hums his understanding.

“I’m glad to be put in charge, but shit, the fucking busywork! All I want at the end of the day is to eat a good meal, get drunk, and fuck someone senseless.”

“The dream.”

“Right? That’s what I thought when I went to that auction a couple weeks ago. I bought the most beautifullodërin the line-up. I planned to spend a week doing nothing but fucking her senseless, you know? Break the bitch in. She has the most perfect tits you’ve ever seen and thick dark hair you just want to wrap your hand around.” He sighs. “Then my fucking on-call doctor told me she’d just given birth.”

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