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

55. Elena

55

ELENA

T he hour Dmitri was given is nearly up.

Peter had a clock brought in so I could watch each minute drag by, another nail in the coffin of my faith in him.

A part of me wants to believe he’ll burst through that door at any moment, the man I thought I could trust, the man I?—

No.

I shove the thought aside, my chest tightening. I’ve learned this lesson before: you can’t rely on anyone but yourself. Belief is bullshit. It’s about protecting yourself as best you can from the pain of it all.

The door creaks open, and Peter strides in with three minutes left on the clock. The light from the hallway outlines his sharp figure, his tailored suit immaculate despite the crumbling surroundings. His eyes gleam with smug satisfaction as he surveys me.

“Well,” he says, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, “it seems your knight in shining armor isn’t so gallant after all.”

I glare at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

Peter chuckles, stepping closer. “Don’t take it too hard, sweetheart. Men like Dmitri always choose survival. But don’t worry—I’ll find him soon enough. And when I do, I’ll ensure his betrayal ends with a bullet. He honestly thinks I’ll let him just walk away? The man’s a fool.”

His words are calculated, each syllable designed to cut deeper. My throat tightens, but I won’t let him see me cry.

He pulls a gun from inside his jacket, its black barrel gleaming under the flickering light. He holds it loosely in his hand. “One minute left.”

And then, the door bursts open.

Dmitri steps in, his presence commanding, his expression calm and unreadable. In his hand, he carries the jade statue, its intricate carvings catching the dim light.

“Here,” Dmitri says, his voice low and steady. “As you ordered.”

For a moment, time seems to freeze. Peter’s smirk falters, his gaze shifting from me to Dmitri and back again. The air in the room is electric, the tension so thick it’s almost suffocating.

He lowers the gun slightly, but his grip on it tightens. Dmitri takes a step forward, his eyes locking onto mine for the briefest of moments before returning to Peter.

“Well, look at you,” Peter says, his voice dripping with mock admiration. “Right on time. Maybe I misjudged you.”

Dmitri stands motionless, his expression a mask of indifference. He doesn’t respond, his silence infuriatingly cool against Peter’s gloating.

Peter chuckles and shakes his head. “Of course, it’s not the statue I’m interested in right now. It’s your loyalty—or lack thereof.”

He straightens, his tone sharpening as he points a finger at Dmitri. “You lied to me, Dmitri. Lied about the statue. Lied about Elena. Lied about her family. It wasn’t Lombardi who left you that little message on their wall. That was me.”

A flicker of something—a barely perceptible reaction—crosses Dmitri’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

Peter steps closer, his voice lowering. “It was a test. A reminder of who you are. Or who you’re supposed to be.” He tilts his head, his smile venomous. “And you failed spectacularly. They ran. You didn’t give chase. What kind of a hunter are you?”

Peter turns to me briefly, gesturing dismissively. “See, Elena, our friend Dmitri here is supposed to be one of the best. Ruthless. Efficient. Loyal to a fault.”

He swivels back to Dmitri, his smirk deepening. “But instead of doing what you were hired to do, you’ve been letting me down.”

He sneers the words, letting them hang in the air like poison.

“Attachment,” Peter continues, “is the ultimate weakness. It clouds your judgment. Makes you hesitate. Turns killers into sentimental fools.” His gaze hardens. “And it makes you unfit to lead. Didn’t I teach you anything?”

Dmitri finally moves, his hands sliding into his pants pockets. His voice is calm, even bored. “You finished?”

Peter bristles at the lack of reaction, his irritation flaring. “You think this is funny? I’ve given you every opportunity to prove you’re still worthy of my trust, and instead?—”

“Look at the statue,” Dmitri interrupts quietly, his words cutting through Peter’s tirade like a blade.

Peter pauses, his expression twisting into a mixture of annoyance and suspicion. “What?”

“The statue,” Dmitri repeats, his gaze steady. “Take a closer look.”