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I go in, greeted by silence and darkness.
“Dad?” I call out and turn the hallway light on first.
I gasp at the sight of a side table that was thrown over.
A broken vase and wilted flowers resting in a puddle of water on the floor.
Papers scattered everywhere. Droplets of blood smeared across the wall.
My father’s phone tossed to the corner, the screen cracked.
Something happened here. Something awful.
Chapter 2
Leo
“Break his kneecaps.”
My fingers twitch as I watch my younger brothers, Samuil and Roman, grab Erik Belov by either arm to hold him still while my half-brother, Damien, approaches with a crowbar in his hands.
I don't actuallywantto break Erik's kneecaps. It's an empty threat, one meant to spur a response out of him. Besides, I don't want to get blood on the carpet. Lord knows I'd never hear the end of it from Andrei. We’re in his office. I'm just borrowing it while he's away.
“P-please!” Erik stutters. “Please, don't do this! I'll have the money for you by the end of the week—I swear!”
My fingers twitch again. I'm pretty sure I'm in need of a fresh nicotine patch. I gave up smoking two months ago at my sister-in-law's insistence going cold turkey has been a giant pain in my ass. I haven’t picked up a cigarette yet, but no matter what I do, I can’t seem to kick the craving. My tobacco addiction seems to rear its ugly head when I’m trying to collect on long overdue debts from deadbeat scumbags.
Like right now, for instance.
“We've been more than patient, Erik,” I say slowly, my voice a low growl. “When you couldn't pay up at one of our gambling dens, my boys wanted to shoot you on site. Don't you agree that giving you the opportunity to pay us back later was more than generous?”
Erik Belov trembles. A thick layer of sweat paints his forehead with a sticky sheen, several thick beads of moisture dripping down his brow and cheeks. By my estimate, he's probably pushing sixty. His hair is thinning at the sides and bald at the top, what little he has left is a light gray. The man's complexion is blotchy—wrinkled and covered in sunspots. After I came back to Moscow following my mind-numbing snowstorm detour in Nikita’s arms, I had Erik dragged out of his apartment and brought over here. He’s been stewing for a few hours now, and I can tell he feels sorry for having crossed us.
But he'll find no pity from me. Anyone who dares to steal from the Bratva is a dead man walking. I gave him a second chance. It's not my fault he chose to squander it.
Erik quivers like a mouse. “I just need a little more time, One-Eye.”
I cringe internally. One-Eye was a little nickname my sister-in-law, Sandra, lovingly gave me when we first met two years ago because I have, in fact, one good eye. My left was damaged in a knife fight ages ago, my vision reduced to nothing more than the slightest differentiation of shadows. It's a little on the nose, if you ask me, but the stupid nickname has stuck, and I frankly can't be bothered to try and change it.
Nikita didn’t seem to care about it much. I’m still stunned by how responsive she was, by how surprised she was by her own willingness to submit. I shake the thoughts away, remembering where I am and what I’m supposed to do.Back to the real world, One-Eye. That blizzard dream is over. She’s gone.
“Nine-hundred thousand rubles,” I mutter. “Even if I gave you until the end of the week, where's a guy like you going to find that kind of money?”
“I'll think of something,” Erik insists. “I'll sell everything I own, I'll borrow money from my family—I'll doanything. Please, I'm begging you.”
I stay quiet, deliberately allowing him to stew in his own silence. I want him to understand just how serious this is. Because when it comes to money, I'm as serious as the plague.
In an official capacity, I'm the Bratva's numbers man. The accountant. I wasn’t lying to Nikita when she asked me what I did for a living. There she goes again, crossing my mind. Every ruble, every kopeck… It all has to be accounted for. Business expenses, monthly profits, redistribution and laundering back into the system. That's my specialty. My bread and butter. Numbers are neat and logical. I find great joy in obsessing over every penny. An organization of our size is only as good as their bookkeeper otherwise everything falls apart at the seams.
I'm more than aware there's no glory in keeping diligent financial records. People think being a criminal is all about violence and firepower. Flashy cars, jewels, and women. Wannabe gangsters are only after the fortune, the parties, the lifestyle. But the truth of the matter is, you can't just take what you want and expect to get away with it.
To us, this is a business. A legacy that will hopefully last for generations to come. What differentiates my brothers and me from the run-of-the-mill street-dealing hustler is that we'resmart. We cover our tracks. The police can't bring you in for a crime they can't trace back to you.Follow the money, as the old adage goes, but if I've done everything correctly—the cops will chase themselves in circles until the end of time.
I exhale heavily, giving Erik a cold glare down the length of my nose. Nine-hundred thousand rubles is peanuts to the Bratva—we make that amount in a day—but I can't very well let him off the hook. There's a lesson to be taught here. Erik has the misfortune of being made into an example. If word gets out that the Antonov-Nicolaevich Bratva is willing to forgive being stolen from if you piss your pants hard enough, it'll do irreparable damage to our reputation.
“Friday,” I state firmly. “By seven pm. If I don't have that money in front of me…” I trail off, seeing no point in finishing my sentence. My threat feels much heavier now that it lingers in the air, unfinished.
“R-right,” he stammers. “Of course. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
