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7
ILYA
Still dressed in my business suit after my meeting with the Yaakovi Bratva’spakhan, I enter the warehouse Artem specified in his phone call, and a smile spreads slowly across my face at the sight of the bound men kneeling beneath the bright hanging spotlights.
“This is the last of them,gospodin,” Artem says in our native tongue, his words sounding slightly breathless as he struggles to keep his own bound victim in control.
“Good,” I growl, drawing near.
The last of the Temkin–the Bratva who dared enter our territory and murder my father in cold blood in their futile attempt to seize power. And now, our bloody, brutal war is finally at an end. Only five of their members remain to face my judgment, which means my men had to have killed well over half of their remaining number just to bring them here to our warehouse. Like a snake in the grass, they’ve been hard to catch, slippery and capable of slipping through our fingers. But not any more. My men have become accomplished hunters in the past year and a half, talented at snatching these snakes by the throat and incapacitating with a single swift move.
Gripping the middle man by the collar of his shirt, I haul him forward and onto his feet. His face is already bloody, his legs unsteady from the beating my men gave him in order to put him in his place, and it gives me silent satisfaction to see just how merciless they were. The guy’s jaw is clearly broken, half his teeth missing, and his left eye has swollen shut in the time it took me to wrap up business to come here.
“Tut-tut-tut,” I tsk with mock sympathy as I hold the man on his feet by his shirt. “It looks like you men got in a little over your heads. And today, your Bratva dies. But no matter how prolonged and painful your deaths are going to be, don’t think it is in vain. The Temkin Bratva will serve an invaluable purpose, sending a message to our community and warning any other Bratvas away who might think about forgetting their place and dare crossing boundary lines,” I purr.
The man glares at me out of his one good eye and leans to the side to spit blood onto the toe of my designer leather shoes. Irritation spikes in my chest, and I throw him roughly back onto the cement floor before cleaning the toe of my shoe by burying it deep in his stomach.
The man cringes, curling around my foot as he coughs and sputters.
“You can kill us,” another man says from the lineup, his face twisted with contempt. “But you will never be rid of our Bratva. We’re coming for you, Ilya Popov. Whether it’s today or ten years from now, we will finish the job.”
Unbridled rage boils up inside me, and I stride forward to grip the man by his throat, lifting him off his feet as I strangle him. His face turns red, then slowly shifts to a deep shade of purple as the veins bulge in his neck and across his forehead. He jerks helplessly in my grasp as he fights for air, and several blood vessels burst in his eyes as they roll in sheer panic.
Moments before he loses consciousness, I release him, letting him fall to the hard floor in a heap. Ragged gasps saw past his ruined throat as he works to breathe through a crushed windpipe.
“Would anyone else like to make a threat before we send you to your maker?” I ask, scanning the pale faces of our three remaining captives.
None of them utter a sound as they flinch back against the legs of my men like the well-whipped dogs they are.
“Good.” Turning my attention back to the man who spoke back to me, I watch his shoulders jerk and convulse as the oxygen deprivation finally consumes him.
A final rattling breath issues from his lungs, releasing in me a deep sense of satisfaction.
Nodding to Artem, I command, “Take care of the rest. Make them suffer.”
A wicked grin spreads across my captain’s face as his underlings chuckle darkly, slowly closing in on their prisoners. Turning toward the exit, I land one more cheap kick against the base of my first victim’s back and am rewarded with a low crunch, followed by a bloodcurdling scream. That ought to teach him to spit on my shoes–not that he’ll need that lesson for much longer.
The agonized wails of the remaining Temkin clan follow me from the warehouse. I don’t usually get my hands dirty anymore. It’s beneath me, aspakhan, to torture people, to put myself at risk by hurting a caged animal who might lash out from sheer instinct. But today, I felt it necessary to make an exception for two reasons. First, this rivalry is more personal than any other might be. These are the men who killed my father, who threatened the very foundations of the clan my family rules. And second, my men need to see that I’m not afraid to use brute strength. If I’m going to ask them to kill someone without question, I have to prove that I would do the same.
Now, I can leave them to enjoy the fruits of their labor. Because I know my men are as thirsty for Temkin blood as I. Those bastards have been ruthless, dishonorable vermin to us since the day they announced their presence. And maybe–just maybe–my clan can finally have some peace now that we’ve smoked the last of their kind from the filthy holes they’ve been hiding in.
It’s not until I slide behind the steering wheel of my Lamborghini that I realize my hands are covered in blood. Whether it’s from the first man’s shirt or the second man’s throat, I don’t actually know. I was too full of adrenaline and the deeply satisfying sense of victory to notice something so insignificant. But I also managed to get some on my suit. I’ll have to get cleaned up and change before I pick Whitney up for our… date.
Anticipation thrums in my veins as I think about my plans for her tonight. It won’t be like last night–though taking her virginity was so fucking delicious it proved to be a test of my willpower not to fuck her into next week. I can’t recall ever having pussy that tight, but Whitney took all of me like the firecracker I thought her to be from the moment I laid eyes on her walking home over a year ago. And fucking Christ, the sounds she makes when she’s about to come. My cock starts to harden in my pants just thinking about it.
But last night had come dangerously close to tender, emotional sex, and I wasn’t kidding when I told her tonight would be different. Whitney needs to understand that what I’m asking of her isn’t supposed to be a relationship. I don’t want feelings and emotions and deep connection. I want a good fuck, a girl who can keep me on my toes and endure all the pain and pleasure I choose to throw at her. And I look forward to seeing just how much she can take.
Pulling onto the long drive leading up to my family’s estate, I take a deep breath to focus myself. I need to wrap up my thoughts about today’s final victory against the Temkin, clean up the evidence of my bloody encounter, and get dressed for tonight.
My butler opens the door to my garage without a word, his eyes remaining raised and unfocused as he intentionally avoids looking at the blood spattering my hands and suit lapel.
I offer him a curt thank you before heading directly to my bedroom. For once, grateful that Bianka has made herself scarce. I don’t want to have to make up an excuse for the blood on my hands.
Stripping quickly, I toss my clothes aside and enter the spacious en suite master bathroom. I don’t wait for the water to get warm as I turn on the shower and step inside. A little cold water will do me good.
The dark stone floor masks the blood as it swirls harmlessly down the drain, and I squirt a generous amount of soap into my palms before lathering my body. The relief of knowing our war is finally over gives me a heady sense of relief. I wonder if I might be able to find a bit more enjoyment in life now that I don’t have the weight of avenging my father pressing down on me.
His soul can finally be at rest knowing that the men who tried to hurt his legacy have suffered dearly for their deeds. Now, I must learn to lead our Bratva with honor and maintain my men’s respect as I focus more on the business and less on the violent side of a turf war.
