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

12. Dmitri

12

DMITRI

I fucked up.

Dropped the address in her room. When was the last time I did something that dumb? Had to go back in her room and looked through her sketchbooks before I left, didn’t I? Dropped the damned paper and didn’t even notice, too busy thinking about her.

I went back to get it as soon as I realized. Didn’t want to leave any clues for some rookie cop trying to make a name for himself.

But she was there. I wasn’t expecting that.

I need to move fast before she does. Get to the address and get this whole shitshow over with.

I stare up at the flickering neon sign above a shabby brick building. It’s a front, and a shoddy one at that, like all of Lombardi’s places.

What a fucking dump. The kind of place where debts spiral into bloodshed, and bodies go missing without anyone asking questions.

The scent of her lingers. Elena. The faint trace of something sweet on her skin, like vanilla or honey. I can still see the fear in her wide eyes, the slight tremble in her hands as she stood frozen in front of me.

And the way her lips parted as if she was going to say something before the bathroom door opened and her friend interrupted us.

She doesn’t even know how close I came to ripping her clothes off and fucking her right there. If she hadn’t had company, I doubt I could have held back.

She’s just a means to an end. But the truth claws at me, sharp and unrelenting. I can feel her under my skin, crawling deeper with every second I let her live.

I’ve made mistakes before, but this one feels like it could cost me everything.

Attachment is weakness.

I should have that tattooed on my fucking eyelids.

The biting wind cuts through my jacket as I approach the building. Two men leaning against the door give me a once-over, their eyes narrowing when they see the tattoos on my knuckles.

“Who are you?” one of them asks in an Italian accent, spitting on the sidewalk. He’s wiry and pale, with bad teeth and worse manners.

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. The way I carry myself is enough to confirm it.

“Who you chasing?” the other man grunts. He’s broader, slower. Easier to predict.

“Jimmy Carlton,” I say evenly.

They exchange a glance, the wiry one smirking. “That bastard owe you money too? Get in line.”

“You seen him?”

“Ask inside.” He pushes the door open.

The air in the place is thick with smoke and the dull hum of conversation. The room is dimly lit, crowded with tables covered in green felt and stacks of chips.

Men and women hover over games of poker and blackjack, their laughter edged with desperation.

A few heads turn when I walk in, but most people are too focused on their vices to care even if they do recognize me. Real gamblers only fear losses, not death in human form.

I make my way to the bar, my boots heavy against the sticky floor. The bartender eyes me warily as I lean against the counter.

“Jimmy Carlton,” I say. “He been here?”

“Never heard of him.”

I toss the casino chips I found onto the bar. “Want to try again?”

He doesn’t answer, just nods toward the far corner where a group of men sit, their voices loud and slurred. I don’t thank him; I don’t need to.

As I approach, the laughter grows louder. One of the men, a stocky guy with a face like a bulldog, slams his fist on the table and barks out a laugh when he sees me.

“Jesus Christ, does Carlton owe half the damn city?”

The others join in, their laughter grating. I don’t say anything, just stand there, my hands loose at my sides.

Bulldog smirks, leaning back in his chair. “What’s the matter? Lost your tongue?”

The others howl with laughter, emboldened by his bravado. One of them stands, swaying slightly. He’s taller than the others but soft, his gut straining against his shirt.

“Where’s Jimmy Carlton?” I ask, shoving him backward.

“Who’s asking?”

I hold out my card. “That answer your question?”

His eyes flash fear but the alcohol gives him misplaced courage. “This ain’t Peter’s turf. This is Lombardi’s place. You can’t do shit without approval. Your card doesn't scare me.”

“We beg to fucking differ, asshole. You’ve gone white as a sheet, so quit being brave for your boyfriends.”

I glance around the room. They think the odds aren’t in my favor. Three men, all drunk but capable of putting up a fight. A dozen more scattered across the room who might step in if things get messy.

But it won’t get messy, at least not for me. It never does.

The tall one moves first, lunging at me with a clumsy swing. I sidestep easily, grabbing his wrist and twisting until I hear the satisfying pop of dislocation.

He screams, doubling over, and I bring my knee up hard into his face. Blood sprays as he crumples to the floor.

Bulldog charges next, his fists swinging wildly. I catch one of his punches and drive my elbow into his throat.

He stumbles back, gasping for air, and I finish him with a sharp kick to the knee. He collapses with a howl, clutching his leg.

The third one hesitates, his confidence wavering. I don’t give him time to decide. Grabbing him by the collar, I slam him face-first into the table, then twist his arm behind his back until he’s screaming.

“Anyone else?” I ask, turning to the room.

I release the third man, letting him slump to the floor. My phone buzzes in my pocket, the vibration cutting through the tension. I pull it out, glancing at the screen before answering.

“Dmitri,” Peter’s voice growls, low and menacing. “You’ve been seen on Lombardi’s turf.”

“Following a lead,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“Don’t leave witnesses.”

“I never do.”

The line goes dead.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, my gaze shifting to the three men writhing on the floor. Bulldog glares up at me, his lip split and bleeding.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he spits, his voice thick with pain. “Lombardi will have you killed for this.”

I crouch down, pulling my gun from my jacket. The metallic click of the safety disengaging echoes in the quiet room.

“We all got to die sometime,” I say softly, nestling the barrel in his eye socket. “Where will I find Jimmy Carlton?”