Page 88 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

“Shit.”

There are fifty buttons that correspond with all of the apartments. I press every single one except for number 34. Someone else in this damned building has to be expecting a guest.

A few people call back. “Hello? Who is it?”

But eventually, someone buzzes me in without even checking to see who it is. I open the door and step into the small entryway.

A wall of small mailboxes line the left wall and a set of stairs beckons at the far side of the room. I can hear someone’s footsteps climbing them. I begin to go after them.

I take the stairs two at a time, but slowly and silently. I don’t want to draw any attention to myself or alert the man to the fact that someone is on his ass.

We reach the fourth floor. A sign notes that this is where Units 31 through 40 await.

The man above me opens the door from the stairwell and slips out. That’s a good sign.

“Go to 34,mudak,” I growl under my breath. That’s the number Gennady gave me. “Go knock on that goddamn door.”

I step out onto the fourth floor just in time to see the man whisk around the corner. I race down and then peer around carefully.

He’s stopped outside of Unit 34.

He pulls down his hood to reveal a bald head—and a swastika tattooed along his scalp. It’s him alright, no doubts about it.

“Got you, motherfucker,” I whisper.

The door opens a little, though not far enough for me to see who is on the other side. He steps inside.

I pull out the master key my men snatched off the building manager. Delicately, I slide it into the lock. Once it’s in, I pause to gather my composure. To remember why I’m here.

You’re doing this for you,croons a selfish voice in my mind.

I shake my head. That’s wrong. Maybe the old Dima would’ve been doing this for himself. But I’m not the same man I once was.

I’m doing this for my family now. For Arya. For Lukas.

I pull up my hood and a bandana to cover the lower half of my face, take a deep breath, and twist the key in the lock. At the same time, I shove my shoulder into the door. It flies open with a bang and I surge in gun-first.

I don’t have to look hard. Richard Solomon is fucking his mistress on the kitchen counter.

He’s only been inside the apartment for ninety seconds at most, but the woman is already sitting on the counter with her legs wrapped around his waist. Her shirt is off, fake tits exposed, and Richard has a double handful of ass.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, struggling to make himself decent.

It’s a dumb question. And it doesn’t matter, because he won’t be alive long enough to hear the answer.

The woman hurries to cover herself. I don’t give a shit what she looks like, though. I only care if Richard is breathing.

Up close and in good lighting, I recognize Richard from the photograph Gennady found online. It was a previous mugshot, before he had the under-eye tattoos I see now—an A and a B in old-school Latin script under each eye.

“A” for Aryan.

“B” for Brotherhood.

Piece of shit would deserve his death even if the Trials weren’t a thing.

I raise my gun and take the killing shot. I almost feel bad how easy it is to kill the bastard.

He falls flat to the floor. His girlfriend screams, but I don’t have time for her. I bend down and rifle through Richard’s pocket until I find his wallet. His ID is tucked beneath a clear flap at the front. I remove it, dip the corner in the spreading pool of his blood, and then bow to his mistress.

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