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

18. Dmitri

18

DMITRI

T he ride to the airport is quiet. I keep the windows down despite the cold, letting the sharp air bite at my face.

I lied. Not a half-truth or a carefully worded evasion this time. A full-blown, brazen lie.

Peter’s built his reputation on having efficient radar for deceit. I’m playing with fire.

It’s in the parcel sitting in Elena’s hands. I am certain of it. I don’t know who sent it to her but I can guess. Her father, trying to get the focus on her, get her killed while he runs.

I could have killed her and brought it to Peter, then tracked down Jimmy and slit his throat. But I didn’t do any of that.

Elena’s face flashes in my mind—those wide, stormy eyes, the way her lips parted when I cornered her in the library. The fire in her voice when she tried to hold her ground against me.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white.

She’s got under my skin, crawling into places I’ve long since buried. Places I didn’t think still existed anymore.

Avoiding emotional entanglements is what keeps me alive. But now, with every second I spend thinking about her, my shield of ice is melting, leaving me exposed for the first time.

And if Peter finds out?

The image of the dead man in the chair flashes in my mind—his broken limbs, the scream frozen on his bloated face, congealed blood sticky beneath his feet.

That’s the fate that awaits me if Peter catches wind of my lie. And far worse, that’s also what he’ll do to Elena.

I clench my hands on the steering wheel.

If Peter wants to get to Elena, he’d better get to me first. Because while I have air in my lungs, no power on Earth will stop me protecting her.