In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(80)

His men made noises of complaint, standing to grab her, but Mishca held up his hand to still them. Some of them were clearly older than him and watching them practically bow to his command only confirmed what she had already believed.

Mishca really was Vory v Zakone.

“Lauren--” He stopped short, his eyes darting over her face, then down over her body. Without another word, he grabbed her arm and hauled her into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. “What happened to your face?”

She scoffed, jerking free of his hold. “Like you don’t know.”

He got in her face so suddenly that she was rooted to the spot. “What. Happened?”

“The Bratva.”

If she hadn’t been looking for it, she might not have seen it, the slight narrowing of his eye as he gritted his teeth. The anger bled away suddenly, replaced with an all consuming sadness.

“You lied to me,” she said, her voice cracking at the end. “You lied to me. Was it you? Did you order them to do it? That’s how it works, right? You make demands and they follow them like f*cking dogs.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She laughed bitterly. “No? Where do you go every Thursday at the beginning of the month? Why do you need a personal bodyguard that looks like he spent half of his life in prison?”

He moved to touch her, but with one look at her face, he held his hands up, but that didn’t stop him from leveling a glare on her that might have quelled a lesser man. “I need you to stop asking questions. Now.”

“I’m not one of them,” she said pointing back at the door. “I don’t answer to you.”

“Careful. You may not answer to me, but if you continue this, you’ll have to answer to somebody else.”

“Fuck you and your threats. What else are you going to do? Send more men to attack me and Ross?” She shoved him and he allowed it, even taking a step back though she knew he could have stood his ground. “I would have never said anything to anyone.”

“What are you talking about, Lauren?” He asked and looked genuinely confused. “Why do you think I sent someone to attack you?”

“Because they were Russian and why else would Viktor bail them out?”

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he whispered.

She shook her head, grabbing the handle of the door. “You already have. And Mishca.” She looked back at him for what she felt would be the last time. “You didn’t have to send the message through Viktor. You could have been man enough to tell me yourself.”

With that, she left and never looked back.





Chapter twenty-Six:


Captain, My Captain

Once, when Mishca was a boy, a neighborhood bully had broken his favorite toy, one of the few gifts he had received from his father for his birthday. He had been too old to go home and cry to his mother though he longed to, knowing she would fix it. But one of his father’s favorite lectures chose that moment to play through his mind.

If a man strikes you, strike him back twice.

So instead of being sad at the loss, Mishca grew angry, but it was nothing compared to what he felt now.

Seeing the bruises, the hurt in her eyes made him crazed, and whichever ublyudki did it to her, he would repay them in kind.

“D’you need something, Captain?”

“You.” He pointed to the two men by the front door. “Find out everything about the attack on Lauren Thompson. I want answers within the hour.”

They stood there, hesitant, not used to him barking orders unless it dealt specifically with the Bratva. Emotions had no place in their world, and when those feelings became volatile it would get you killed.

Grabbing the Scotch bottle to his right, Mishca lugged it at the two of them, the crystal shattering against the door between them. “Eto moy prekaiz!”

They barely flinched, yanking the door open and disappearing before another object could come flying at them. Mishca was known for his aim and if he missed, he missed on purpose.

“What are you thinking?” Vlad asked.

The problem was…he wasn’t. He couldn’t think. He didn’t know why this had happened, but he knew it was his fault.

And the only thing he could do now was wait.

***

In Brighton Beach, across from the pier, the Volkov Bratva owned a commercial warehouse—listed under a dummy corporation—and was used as a butcher’s shop. It was over 1,800 square feet and was a prospering business by day, and a torture chamber by night. Towards the rear of the warehouse was a hidden staircase, leading into the basement that was meant to be used as a meat locker, yet it served a more unsavory purpose.

It was often dubbed the wet room because of the pipes that ran the length of the ceiling, droplets of water leaking from them onto the concrete floor, highlighting the old rust colored stains. Twin, sturdy hooks hung between the pipes, able to bear the weight of an animal carcass, so the various people that had been hung there over the years had no hope of the chains and hooks giving way.

Freezing cold air blasted from the overhead vents, making the current inhabitants of the room tremble, but not just from the cold. They had followed the rules, never crossing any man in their line of work.

They didn’t understand why they were here, the two that had taken them not giving them an explanation, only that they were wanted by the Captain. But one thing they did know, if they were brought here, they were going to die.