Page 3 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

He sighs. “I don’t even understand why you’re doing this, Dima. Give it up. Skip town and let it go.”

“Give me a name,” I growl. “Tell me who you want dead. One more kill. Then you give me my army.

Ilyasov scoffs. “What’s the point? My men are good and they can get you your Bratva back. But your reputation is ruined. You let one of your underlings wrench control from you. Now that the weakness has been revealed, more and more people will try to manipulate it. The wars will never stop. You’ll be defending your heritage for the rest of your life. Which, I’m sorry to say, may not be very long.”

Ilyasov isn’t speaking out of his ass, which only makes what he’s saying that much worse.

It’s happened to other dons. As soon as it looks like their control is slipping, every snake within striking distance decides to take a bite.

The Bratva life is all about power and control. If it looks like you don’t have enough of each, you’re done. Your men won’t respect you. Your enemies won’t fear you.

Which is why there’s only one way to handle this: scorched earth.

I have to slaughter every single person who betrayed me. The streets will run with blood when I’m done. If anyone doubts my strength, I’ll show them what happens toublyudkiwho cross me.

And then the world will go back to the way it’s supposed to be.

No Zotov. No Arya. No Jorik.

Just me and my empire, unchecked and unchallenged.

“Dima…”

“Give me the goddamn name.”

“A real man knows when to retreat,” Ilyasov muses.

I shiver at the saying. Ilya sounds so much like Father. And to hear him echo Father’s words in a time like this… it’s unnerving. As if the man who gave us life is back from the dead.

“I won’t ask again, Ilyasov.”

Ilyasov is clearly tired of arguing with me. He’s just as headstrong as I am.

So, with a sigh, he finally concedes. “Very well. One more task it is. The name is Giorgio D’Onofrio. He runs a casino in Atlantic City. Kill him and you’ll have your army.”

I nod and hang up without another word.

A real man may know when to retreat.

But a don knows when to launch a war.

* * *

I go inside the motel room and shower. Then I drop onto the shitty mattress and close my eyes.

I want to sleep. Fuck, Ineedto sleep. I haven’t gotten more than a couple hours a night for two weeks running.

Partly because I’ve been busy amassing support from anywhere I can get it.

And partly because, every time I fall asleep, I see her face.

Aryana Georgeovich. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

I should hate her—and most of the time, I’m successful at doing exactly that. But sometimes, a different emotion rises. One I refuse to name.

A longing. A hunger. A desire.

One eye cracks open. I feel the tingle, the urge in my fingertips. I try to resist it. But in the end, the instinct wins out. I reach over to the nightstand and grab my cell phone. Swiping through the apps, I pull up the tracking software. A map pops open, centered on a little red dot somewhere in eastern New Jersey.

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