Page 74 of Lord of Justice

"Carry on," Andrey says.

"No, seriously. Did he just turn into a bat? He turned into a bat, didn't he? Did he fly out a crack in the window?"

Andrey puts his hand on my throat and pulls me toward him for a hard kiss. "It is entirely possible that Vadim is supernatural," he admits, his lips tracing over mine. "Remember that his grandfather is the Angel of Death."

"What are you going to do with this information, about Sinclair?" I ask.

He traces my cheek with his thumb, so beautiful, in his remote way. "I'm not sure yet," he says. The smile spreading across his face is not a nice one. "But there are so many options."

***

Dedushka -Russian for grandfather.

Chapter Thirty-Five

In which no one is safe in the dark.

Andrey…

The sky is its blackest black tonight. The new moon is only faintly visible.

Even on brightly lit streets, there are shadows everywhere. I move in them getting closer to Fadeyev's place. Trofim is next to me, frowning. He is not a fan of this mission.

"Are you sure about this, boss? We're in Moscow. It's very different from New York."

"I need you at that warehouse," I say, not taking my eyes off Fadeyev's home. He passes by one of his lower windows, shouting on his phone. Two guards make rotations outside. They're crisp and disciplined, but easily taken care of.

Ilya, who is Kolya's tech twin here in our Russian operations, has already briefed me. Two more guards inside, and a never-ending stream of young, frightened girls that are taken back tothe warehouse afterward.

Trofim groans. "Boss…"

"Stop complaining. You're coordinating the rescue. When those girls are out safely. I want it burned to the ground, nothing but ash. Leave the guards inside it."

"Harsh, but fair," Trofim says. "I'll leave you to it. But I feel like I am remiss in my duties."

"You're following my orders," I say. "Go."

I screw a silencer on my Magnum, feeling the heat run along my skin, muscle tensing, needing to move. This particular form of judgment will always be more satisfying to me than the other side of the law, it always brings justice.

Fadeyev has been found guilty.

His outside guards are good, but their rotation is too reliable. They're both neutralized within two minutes, pushed under the elaborate bushes that surround his house. My pulse is thrumming, I clench my fist, eager to establish a level of suffering that will only begin to make up for what he's done to these girls.

I've murdered dozens of men. I've tortured countless others. I am not a good man.

But the thing that the Morozov Bratva abhors above all others is the Red Trade. Only gutterfilth preys on the weakest.

A cloud passes over the bit of the moon shining in the sky, turning everything black. I grin in the darkness, pressing my electronic device against a side window, disarming the alarm. Lifting it, I hop inside. I stand for a moment, remembering the layout of the house. There's the faint sound of a TV, the steady steps of the guards, one circling the first floor, the other is on the second. Pulling up my balaclava, I lope up the servant stairs, a narrow stairway built by the kitchen in these old houses.

The guard is talking.

"When he's finished, he shares," he says. "You're going to be passed around a lot. You'd better accept it now. Some of us enjoy it even more when you cry."

I hear it, the faintest whimper, a sob strangled in the throat from someone too terrified to make a sound.

Pressing flat against the wall, I get a glimpse through a crack in the bedroom door. There's a mirror against the wall. In the reflection, I see a girl shaking on the bed, wearing flimsy underwear and a chain around her ankle.

The burly fuck is standing at the foot of the bed, grinning at her. If I shoot him, she might scream. That would derail everything. I can't risk...