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

7. Dmitri

7

DMITRI

J immy’s apartment reeks of stale sweat, burnt coffee, and damp. My boots thud softly against the hardwood as I move through the empty space, phone pressed to my ear.

“Someone tipped them off,” I say. “Gone by the time I got here last night.”

There’s a pause, then the voice on the other end, speaking in Russian, growls through the receiver. “So why go back?”

My lips tighten as I step into the girls’ shared bedroom. The contrast between the two sides is immediate.

One bursts with color—expensive shoes, designer bags, makeup spread across a vanity like a shrine.

The other is painfully sparse: a plain bedspread, a few worn books neatly stacked on a desk and a small collection of sketchpads tied with string.

“The youngest daughter was left behind,” I answer, letting my eyes linger on the sketchpads. “She might know something.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” The word comes without hesitation. “I’ve made contact.”

“And?”

“I gave her my card.” My fingers trail over a quilt on the plain bed, the fabric soft and frayed at the edges. It feels old and well-used. There’s a hint of her scent rising from the bed. “She’ll call when he gets in touch.”

The voice on the phone draws my attention. “You sound like you’re going to let her live.”

My jaw tightens. “He’ll contact her soon enough. She’ll tell me where the prick is.”

“And what about the detective who tried to warn her about you?”

I pause, my hand curling around the edge of the desk. My tone drops, colder now. “He won’t do it again.”

The low chuckle from the other end is as expected as it is grating. “How messy?”

My tone is professional. “Do you want details of how many bones I broke, or do you want me to get on with my job?”

The laughter dies, replaced by a sharp edge of warning. “I want it back, and I want it back fast.”

“I’ll get it.”

“You better.”

The line goes dead.

My eyes drift back to the sparse side of the room. The walls are bare, no photos or posters, and my gaze lands on the stack of sketchpads. I pick one up, flipping it open with careful fingers.

The pages are filled with architectural designs, each one meticulously drawn. High-rises with glass facades. Bridges spanning rivers. There are measurements scrawled in the margins, notes written in a hurried but steady hand. They’re precise, deliberate. But done in secret.

I close the sketchpad and set it down. “She wants to be an architect,” I mutter.

My gaze shifts to the vanity across the room, cluttered with high-end makeup and perfume. Photos pinned to the wall of a girl and her friends at nightclubs and fancy brunches, grinning into the camera. Notably, there are family photos too, tucked in alongside school achievement awards and cheerleading commendations.

“So here’s the golden child,” I murmur. “And her sister is Cinderella. No wonder they didn’t take her with them.”

The weight of the phone call makes me pause—the lies I spun so easily. Lies that could get me killed if they unravel. I’ve never lied to him before. Why now?

Why am I letting her live? I could go find the family without her easily enough; hunting is what do best. I don’t need her.

I step to the window, staring out at the street below. My reflection in the glass is faint but clear enough: hollow eyes, sharp angles, a face carved by death’s own hand.

Attachment is weakness.

I’ve seen it before. In others, in myself. My earliest memories are of my parents telling me they’d never leave me. I let myself get attached to them.

Bullshit. It’s all bullshit.

Love makes people soft and reckless. Vulnerable. And vulnerabilities get people killed.

I close my eyes, the weight of memory pressing down on me. Blood. Screams. Promises I couldn’t keep.

You don’t deserve anything else. Not love. Not peace. Not redemption.

When I open my eyes, my reflection hasn’t changed. Cold. Calculating. Everything it’s supposed to be.

I turn back to the room, letting my gaze sweep over it one last time. Her life is here, laid out in pieces—books, drawings, a carefully folded shirt draped over the back of a chair.

Last night, I looked at her asleep in bed and knew what I had to do. Wake her up, torture her, get the intel from her, then kill her. But all I did was watch her sleep. Then I left like I was never here.

My calling card was carved into the wall but not by me.

Someone warned them I was coming but who and why?

The imbalance between the two halves of the room gnaws at me and stops me from working things out. Elena’s side is muted and careful as if she’s spent her life trying not to take up space.

They left her with nothing. They ran to save their worthless hides. Knew I’d torture her to get to the truth. Knew I was coming. Didn’t care to protect her.

The thought sticks in my mind, sharp and unwelcome. Families like this—ones with golden children and scapegoats—I’ve seen it before. It’s always the same story.

It shouldn’t bother me.

Except this time, it does.

I move into her parents’ bedroom. I kneel by the bed, running my hands under the mattress. It doesn’t take long before my fingers brush against a hard edge. I tug it free—a wad of cash held together by a rubber band—a few hundred.

I toss the money onto the bed and keep looking underneath. Piles of old shoes, a locked metal tin labeled “taxes.”

Amateurs.

I grab a shoehorn from the pile of crap and wedge it under the lid, popping it open with a snap. Inside are a few small plastic bags of pills, white powder, and more loose cash in mixed denominations.

“Drugs and cash. Sloppy motherfuckers,” I mutter, shaking my head. “And so predictable.”

I find something more interesting at the bottom of the tin: a couple of casino chips. Not from Vegas or Atlantic City. These are from a place I recognize—one of Lombardi’s underground casinos.

I pocket the chips and then move to the dresser. My hands work quickly, pulling open drawers and checking the backs and bottoms. People always hide things in the same places. They think they’re clever, but they’re not.

Sure enough, I find a slip of paper in the back of a sock drawer—an address scrawled in sloppy handwriting.

If they hadn’t been in such a hurry to save themselves, maybe they’d have hidden things better. This is the problem with loved ones; they slow you down.

I’ve always avoided emotional entanglements. It’s a rule I’ve lived by for years, and for good reason.

In my world, weakness gets you killed before you can blink. That’s why I’m at the top of my game, and no momentary lapse of judgment will change that.

I study the scribbled address momentarily before tucking it into my jacket—a lead, at last.

Time to focus on the task at hand.

This isn’t about her. It’s about the mission. The job. The blood that needs to be spilled.

Attachment is weakness.