Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

3. Elena

3

ELENA

T he North Shore precinct looks like it was built in the 70s and left to rot ever since. Faded paint, flickering fluorescent lights, and a smell that’s equal parts stale coffee and despair.

Veronica and I sit side by side on the lumpy vinyl chairs in the waiting area, surrounded by cracked walls and a handful of bored officers. Veronica scrolls furiously on her phone. I’m too nervous to do the same.

“Anything?” I ask as she growls in frustration.

She shakes her head. “I’ve Googled every combination of ‘Bratva King,’ ‘crime,’ and ‘wall-carved warnings’ that I can think of. All I’m getting are Reddit threads about werewolves and bad B-movies.”

I sigh, leaning back. The chair squeaks obnoxiously. “So there’s nothing?”

“You’d think a guy with a nickname like ‘The Bratva King’ would have a Wikipedia page or something. What kind of self-respecting criminal doesn’t have a media presence?”

“Maybe he’s old-school. You know, the whole ‘leave no trace’ vibe.”

“Great. So you’re being stalked by a ghost with branding issues.”

I can’t help but snort, which earns me a disapproving glare from the officer behind the desk.

“You know,” Veronica says, leaning closer, “if we don’t get answers here, there’s always the library. Newspapers. Old crime reports.”

“You think the library’s going to have a section labeled ‘Russian wall carvers who the cops know about but no one else does’?”

“Libraries are pretty wild these days.”

“You’re only saying that because you had sex in one last week.”

She turns pink. “Not so loud.” She leans closer to my ear. “And it wasn’t sex; I just went down on him.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I’ve never in a million years gone on a date that ended with a blowjob in the Italian Cookery section.”

“It was Roman History, if you must know.”

“I should count myself lucky he didn’t take you up Pompeii.”

She winks. “I’m saving that for the second date. Seriously, this guy might be the one. Better than all those assholes I’ve dated before.”

“I hope so. You deserve a decent one for once.”

The door to the back office creaks open, and a tall, barrel-chested officer steps out. His name tag reads Dodgson, but his expression screams Not here to help.

“Elena Carlton?” he calls, looking around like he expects me to have gone already.

I stand, clutching my handbag tighter. Veronica squeezes my arm for reassurance before I follow Dodgson into a small, windowless room with a battered metal desk and two mismatched chairs.

The interrogation vibe is strong.

He doesn’t invite me to sit; he just drops into the chair behind the desk and starts flipping through a file. His indifference is palpable.

“Says here you reported your family missing,” he starts without looking up. “Family of adults?” He sighs. “Jimmy, 49, Alicia, 47, and Natalia, aged 24. Your family, right?”

“Yes,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “That’s my family.”

He rolls his eyes. “In my experience, when adults disappear, it’s because they don’t want to be found.”

Heat rises in my chest. “Without taking their phones, their wallets, or even their car?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He finally looks up, his eyes flat. “People with your parents’ history don’t exactly live predictable lives.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means your father’s criminal record is longer than my arm. Your mother’s not far behind him. And your sister…well, apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? I bet if I looked into your closet, I’d find a few skeletons, right?”

The words hit like a slap, but I refuse to back down. “Even if that’s true, they’re still missing. Doesn’t that mean something?”

He leans back, crossing his arms. “It means you’re better off letting this go. Trust me, no one will miss them, least of all me.”

Anger bubbles up, hot and sharp. “They’re my family. Why won’t you do something?”

He lowers his voice, glancing up at the camera near the ceiling before whispering so faintly I can barely hear him. “The Bratva King doesn’t leave loose ends. If I were you, I’d stop asking questions and start looking for somewhere to hide.”

I stare at him, stunned. The silence stretches until it feels unbearable.

He exhales heavily. “Stop looking. Stop asking. Because if you don’t…” He shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

My fists clench at my sides. “So, you’re not going to do anything?”

“Lady, I just helped you more than you know,” he replies, standing. “Now get out of here before I have to arrest you for the kilo of crystal I’m about to find in your handbag.”

I want to scream, to demand he take me seriously, but the look in his eyes shuts me down. It isn’t apathy. It’s terror. I only see it briefly before he looks bored again, but there’s no way I got that wrong.

“Thanks for nothing,” I say, getting to my feet, feeling a mixture of pity and impotent rage.

Veronica is waiting for me in the lobby, her phone still in hand. “Well?” she asks when I reach her.

“Same old story,” I say, my voice hollow. “He thinks I should be grateful I’m not dead. Whoever the Bratva King is, he sure scares the shit out of the cops.”

She curses under her breath. “So that’s it? Three people vanish and no one cares?”

“Pretty much.”

She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door, her stride furious. “Fine. Screw them. We’ll figure this out ourselves.”

We step into the street, the cool afternoon air hitting me like a slap. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but something feels way off.

I glance around, my heart skipping a beat.

Then I see him.

He stands across the street, leaning casually against a sleek black SUV as if he owns the whole block—and maybe he does.

He’s got to be at least forty, imposingly tall, with broad shoulders that stretch the sharp lines of his tailored black suit. The fabric clings just enough to suggest the power beneath.

Tattoos coil up his hands like vines, vanishing beneath the crisp cuffs of his shirt, leaving me wondering how far they go.

His face holds me captive. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, framed by dark stubble that only adds to the air of menace.

His cheekbones are high, his lips firm, and his eyes take my breath away—piercing, cold, and utterly unrelenting, locking onto me like a predator sizing up prey.

His gaze reaches across the street to grip me, pinning me in place. My skin prickles under the weight of it, a flush rising to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the chilly air. My chest tightens, heat pooling low in my stomach, leaving me confused and off-balance.

There’s something about him—something magnetic, dangerous, inevitable . I can’t decide whether to run or step closer, but the choice feels irrelevant. He looks at me like he already owns me.

“You know that guy?” Veronica asks, nudging me as he strolls toward us.

“Never seen him before in my life.”

“Then why’s he looking at you like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like he wants to fuck you or kill you.”

I don’t answer. I’m frozen to the spot, watching him reach into his jacket.

This is it , I think as I wait for him to pull out a gun. This is how I die.