Page 3 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“Yeah, a little. But I love it,” her voice went dark.

Our bodies slick with sweat, I buried my face in her shoulder as I claimed my orgasm, filling that damn condom.

I finished and pulled out, alarmed again at all the blood. “Hold on, I have to clean you up.”

She sat up and moved her ass. “Oh God. Is that amount of blood normal?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been with a virgin.” I stood and snapped off the condom, dropped it in the trash wrapped in a tissue. And then left a kiss on her mouth. Then I tugged at the sheet and pointed to the rings of crimson stain. “I claimed the shit out of you, Sandrine. Look at what we did. That’s fucking beautiful. You know what all this means, right?”

She blinked, her eyes heavy with caution. “You got what you wanted, and now you’re done with me?”

“Did your father tell you that?” I sneered.

“Yes,” she snapped back, unafraid.

I smiled, even though I wanted to kill that prick for poisoning Sandrine against me.

“I’ll take great pleasure in proving your father wrong. Proving them all wrong.” I glided a finger through the swollen, drenched, bloody lips of her pussy and lifted it to her face. “And this right here means you’re fucking mine.”

Chapter 1

Kirill Volkov – Chicago – Present Day

Find the paintings. Find Sandrine.

I lean against a metal file cabinet that contains God-knows how many secrets. Gloved hands tucked under my armpits, I try to contain myself because this one is personal.

Hell, it’s beyond personal. It’s about family. My family. The family I lost five years ago.

The lawyer is pinned to his desk chair by the sheer power of my enforcer’s attention. Drago doesn’t rush these interrogations. My brother-in-law has the patience of a saint.

I’m a sinner.

“Where did you get the painting?” I ask Lew Jagger, my voice calm.

“What painting?” A broken reply rattles from the lawyer’s chest, but he has no idea how miserable I can make his life.

In the dingy law office with windows clouded by years of grime, the dull thud of Drago’s fist against the scumbag’s flesh punctuates the eerie quiet at measured intervals. Each impact is placed where it will hurt the most.

But the metallic tang of blood is starting to overpower the waft of Jagger’s cheap cologne. It burned the back of my throat the moment I stepped into this hellhole.

The lawyer’s eyes dart toward me, searching. He doesn’t know who I am because I’m wearing a mask. This sad piece of garbage thinks I’m the reasonable one in this room. That I might call this off.

He doesn’t realize yet that he crossed the Bratva. And rarely does a man survive that mistake.

Outside, my army, my bratoks, line up in the stairwell. Waiting for my signal to strike, they are a silent presence. Until they’re lethal. Then nothing will survive. That’s how we train them in the Volkov Brotherhood.

“Answer the question,” I sneer to the lawyer through clenched teeth.

Find the paintings. Find Sandrine.

“Please, I told you. I don’t know anything.” The stench of Jagger’s sweat escapes his wrinkled shirt.

Drago’s hand wraps around his throat, fingers digging in just enough to make the man wince before the next strike lands. There’s a rhythm to my enforcer’s violence that strips away lies layer by layer until only truth remains.

But it’s taking too fucking long tonight.

“Try again,” Drago says, his voice low, terrifying. “You received a wire from Bedell Auctions three months ago. Where did you get that painting you gave them to sell?”