Page 28 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)
I can feel her worry through the screen. For the first time, a smidgen of discomfort manages to weasel its way past my defenses. I’m glad my parents don’t know everything.
Even if ninety percent of my activities will travel back to them, ten percent manage to stay hidden out here in the desert.
Like the death of one of Ozol’s loyalists.
I’d tortured the bastard for seven days straight. On the eighth day, when he still refused to give me anything, I made good on my promise.
I’d flayed him until he begged for mercy. Then I’d ripped him from chest to groin and watched his insides fall to the floor in front of me.
And I’d fucking enjoyed it—he deserved worse.
Even as I stood in the open desert and torched his remains until there was nothing left but ash, I wish I could have made him hurt more for all the sins he’d wrought.
His disappearance has definitely been noticed, but no one can connect him with me. Well, perhaps one man can. Fortunately, it’s the one man I want to make the connection.
The hit was a personal message to Ozol. One I know he will understand loud and clear.
“Son, please… you’re losing yourself to this mission,” she says heavily. “You’ve become obsessed.”
She says it like it’s a dirty word. Hell, maybe it is. I’ve lost the ability to tell any longer.
“I’m not obsessed. I’m focused.”
“No?” she asks. “You live, sleep, and breathe it. Tell me, when was the last time you did anything fun?”
Jesus.Fun. What does that word even mean?
Of course, I’m proving her point. Which only serves to piss me off further. So I just opt for the easiest response—escape.
“I have to go.”
“Phoenix, don’t you dare—”
My father’s warning dies as I disconnect the call. The timing is perfect. I would have had to hang up anyway. I turn the corner and spot the location I’d been sent earlier.
I park far down the street, but I make sure I have a clear view of the entrance to the nondescript house with the rusted gate.
According to my source, the man who lives here is a decorated, fifteen-year veteran detective on the Las Vegas police force. He’s spent most of that time cultivating contacts in all the wrong places.
The motherfucker’s hands are dripping with innocent blood. He helps facilitate trafficking operations within city limits. Making it easier and more convenient for bastards like Ozol to kidnap, transport, and sell women in broad daylight.
It took a handful of long, arduous interrogations before his name came up at all. I’m not letting this lead slip through my fingers.
So I slide down against my seat and wait. A text pings onto my screen. I glance down, expecting to see a message from my mother.
But it’s not her.
It’s Matvei Tereshkova.
The fucker has been a thorn in my side for the past several years, ever since he arrived in Las Vegas from Europe and told me he was a hired killer in need of a job. It’s sheer dumb luck that he also happens to be my closest friend.
Please don’t tell me you’re actually tailing the cop on your fucking own?!
I smile and ignore his text for the time being. But the smile slips off my face when I notice a tall figure moving towards the gate. Detective Jonathan Murray steps outside wearing dark trousers and a black t-shirt. He looks to be in his mid-forties. Well-built and slightly burly. He definitely doesn’t look like a cop.
But then again, he seems to be working off the clock here.
As I watch, he gets in his shiny black Lexus, a far nicer model than a working detective should be able to afford. He doesn’t scan the area before he gets in his car. Totally relaxed. Unconcerned.
