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

4. Elena

4

ELENA

“ E lena Carlton?” the stranger asks in a rumbling growl as he pulls a business card from his pocket. His words are laced with a Russian accent. “You’re Jimmy Carlton’s kid, right?”

I flinch as he holds the business card out to me.

His jawline is sharp enough to cut glass but his eyes unnerve me more. They’re ice-cold and calculating, yet flickering with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. They’re like twin seas, threatening to pull me under if I dare look too long.

My hand trembles as I reach for the card. It’s smooth, with a single name—Dmitri—and a phone number printed in crisp letters, as stark and blunt as the man himself.

I should be terrified. I am terrified. But beneath the fear is a strange heat curling low in my stomach, a desire that feels reckless and uninvited.

His lips quirk into the barest hint of a smirk as if he can read my thoughts.

“What is this?” I ask, looking down at the card.

“If your family gets in touch, call me.”

I blink, trying to process the words. “Who are you?”

But the interaction is already over, and he brushes past me, heading up the precinct steps.

Detective Dodgson opens the door. The brash cop is shaking, his face ashen. He opens his mouth to speak, but a briskly raised palm from Dmitri stops him in his tracks, and to my astonishment, Dodgson starts crying—actively sobbing—as he steps aside to let Dmitri in.

“Do you think…” I trail off, unsure how to finish the thought.

“Do I think what?” Veronica replies, clutching my arm. “That he’s the Bratva King? Yeah, I get that feeling, don’t you?”

The tension in my chest tightens as I try to make sense of what just happened. “He knows who I am,” I whisper.

“Yeah, I noticed that too,” she replies. “But honestly, I’m more interested in the fact a cop crapped his pants at the mere sight of him.”

The door to the precinct bursts open, and another cop stumbles out. He’s pale, sweaty, and moving like a man who’s just seen a ghost.

We freeze, watching as he lurches toward the curb and doubles over, vomiting onto the sidewalk. The sound is awful—wet and guttural.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, casts a terrified glance over his shoulder, directly at me, and then bolts down the street like The Devil is chasing him.

“Okay, that’s it,” Veronica says, grabbing my arm. “We’re leaving.”

I nod numbly, but just as we start to move, the doors open again, and Dmitri steps out.

He doesn’t look at us right away. He glances down, wrinkling his nose at the puddle of puke, and scans the street with sharp, calculating eyes. He sees the cop’s rapidly retreating back and smiles coldly.

His gaze turns my way, and everything else blurs into the background. His dark eyes bore into mine, unreadable and unyielding.

I swallow hard, trying to muster some courage. I notice a few flecks of red on his shirt. It looks a lot like drops of blood.

“What did you do to him?” I ask as he walks down the steps.

He walks over to his SUV, ignoring my question. I could follow him, shout, anything, but my feet are rooted to the ground, frozen by something . Fear, certainly, but there’s more, like I’m trying to resist being drawn closer and getting trapped in his orbit.

Dmitri opens the driver’s door, pausing to glance across the roof at me. That sledgehammer gaze slams me again, forcing the sir from my lungs.

“If you hear from your family,” he says when he reaches me, “you call me .”

He ducks his head, and within seconds, he’s gone, the car purring as he pulls away.