Embrace of the Russian Tiger (Russian Mafia Kings #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I was fourteen when I found her.

Katya, my little sister, left broken and discarded on the cold, wet stones by the Bronx River. Her body was mangled, blood drying on her skin, her dress torn to shreds like her innocence. The once-beautiful, carefree girl I had known was now just a hollow shell, a victim of a city that had no mercy. The police had said it was an accident. They’d written it off with barely a glance, another immigrant girl who wouldn’t make the headlines. “She fell,” they’d told my parents. “These things happen.”

Katya’s skirt was torn, and her shirt was ripped apart. I did not need to be a cop to see that Katya had been raped. She’d been hurt. I couldn’t get the image of her broken body out of my mind—her wide, empty eyes staring into nothing, her voice silenced forever. Someone had done this to her, and that someone had thought they could walk away without consequence.

They were wrong. I knew the truth. I knew exactly who did it.

From that moment, everything changed. The pain I felt that day consumed me, hardened me, turned me into something different. I vowed I would never be weak again. I swore I would become the kind of man who didn’t beg for justice—no, I would take it. I would become the monster that made men fear the darkness. I would become the kind of man no one could touch.

And Antonio Rossi would not know what had hit him until it was too late.

The rain tapped against the windows of his Long Island mansion, as Mikhail and I made our way inside. His security was a joke, as expected. Rossi was arrogant, too sure of himself, and too comfortable in his luxury to see the threat approaching. His wealth and power blinded him to the reality that his time was running out. I had spent years planning this night. Tonight, the monster who killed my sister would pay for what he had done.

We moved like shadows through the hallways, the dim light reflecting off the marble floors beneath our feet. Rossi’s mansion was a gilded cage, built to keep the rest of the world out. But it wouldn’t keep me out. Nothing could.

Mikhail stayed close, always the silent sentinel at my side. He had been with me for years, through every kill, every fight. He knew this wasn’t just another hit. This was personal. He had seen me when I was nothing more than a boy, broken by the loss of my sister. He had watched as I rose from the streets of Moscow and then New York, forging my way into the Bratva, and eventually becoming its leader. The Russian Tiger. Fears. Respected. Darkness itself.

I nodded to Mikhail as we reached the study door. He stepped aside, knowing this kill was mine to take. It was my right. My justice. My revenge.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Antonio Rossi sat behind his oversized desk, a cigar clutched in his fingers, the smell of smoke thick in the air. The sight of him sitting there, comfortable in his wealth, sent a wave of disgust rolling through my body. This man had killed my sister, had brutalized her, and he thought he could live his life without consequences. Not anymore.

He looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes for a brief moment before he schooled his features into a tight smile. “Maxim Ivanov,” he said, his thick Italian accent dripping from every syllable. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I didn’t answer. Words were unnecessary. Silence was more powerful. I wanted him to feel it—his control slipping away, the inevitability of death creeping closer.

Rossi’s smile faltered, and he set his cigar down, shifting in his seat as if that small action could save him. “I wasn’t expecting a visit. Business is good between us, no?”

I stepped forward, my eyes locked on his. I could see the fear beginning to build behind his carefully crafted facade. Men like Rossi, who lived for wealth and power, never expected death to come for them. They thought they were untouchable.

They were wrong.

“You think I came here for business?” I asked, my voice low, barely above a whisper, but it carried through the room like a gunshot.

Rossi’s eyes darted toward the door, calculating, searching for a way out, but there was none. Not tonight.

“I don’t know what you mean, Maxim. I’ve always respected you, respected the Bratva. Whatever it is you think I did?—”

“You killed my sister.”

The words fell like stones into the silence, heavy and final. His face blanched, and his mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Her name was Katya,” I continued, stepping closer, my every movement deliberate. “You raped her. You took her life. You brutalized her and left her like trash on the side of the river. Police let you get away with it. And you thought that you could continue living your life and die of old age. But you will not die of old age.”

“I didn’t know she was—” he stammered, but I cut him off.

“I don’t care what you think you knew,” I said, my voice hard, cold. “All that matters is that you took something from me. Now, I’m going to take everything from you.”

Rossi stumbled back, his chair crashing to the floor as he tried to put space between us. “Please,” he begged, his hands trembling as he raised them in surrender. “We can work something out. I can give you anything—money, power, anything you want.”

I stepped closer, raising my gun, the barrel pointed directly at his head. “The only thing I want is your life.”

He whimpered, tears welling in his eyes as he sank to his knees in front of me. “Please, Maxim?—”

Before he could finish, I slammed the gun against his temple, sending him sprawling to the floor. His groan of pain echoed in the room as he scrambled to get up, his hands slipping on the polished wood. I took a step forward, pressing my boot down on his back, keeping him pinned to the floor like the worm he was.

“You took my sister from me,” I said, my voice low and menacing. “And now, you will die because of it.”

I pulled him up by his shirt collar, forcing him to look at me, forcing him to see the man he had made. His eyes were wild with terror now, all pretense of control gone. He was at my mercy, and there was none left in me.

“Maxim,” he choked, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “We can make a deal.”

I leaned down, close enough that he could feel the coldness radiating from me. “There are no deals with me, Rossi.”

I cocked the gun, my finger brushing the trigger, ready to end his miserable life, but then something caught my attention. A small, quick movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head slightly and saw her.

A girl.

She was standing in the doorway, her wide, terrified eyes locked on me. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, the same age Katya had been. She had witnessed everything. She shouldn’t have been here, but she was.

I hesitated, just for a moment.

“Mikhail,” I said, my voice tight with control. “Take care of it.”

Mikhail stepped forward, his eyes following mine to the girl. She stood frozen, trembling, her hands clutching the doorframe as if it could keep her safe. She was too young to understand, too young to be a part of this.

“She saw everything,” Mikhail said, his voice quiet but firm.

“I know,” I replied. “Get rid of her.”

But Mikhail didn’t move. He stood there, his jaw clenched, his hesitation palpable. I felt a wave of frustration rising inside me. This wasn’t the time for doubt. The girl was a witness, and in my world, witnesses didn’t survive. It was as simple as that. Clean. Efficient.

“Mikhail,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “Now.”

He hesitated again, glancing at me, and then at the girl. For the first time in years, I saw something in Mikhail’s eyes that I hadn’t seen before. Doubt. Guilt. But I didn’t care. There was no room for hesitation here.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said finally, his voice stiff.

I turned back to Rossi, my finger on the trigger. He had taken Katya from me, stolen her life, her future, and now I would take his. There was no other way.

The gunshot rang out, loud and final, and Rossi’s body slumped to the floor, lifeless.

I stood there for a moment, staring down at his corpse, waiting for the satisfaction to come. Waiting for the rush of victory, the sense of closure. But it didn’t come. It never did.

I turned away, stepping past Mikhail, and out into the cold night air. The rain had stopped, but the chill lingered, cutting through my clothes, biting at my skin.

It was done.

Rossi was dead, but Katya was still gone.

And the hole her death had left in me would never be filled.