The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(47)

She tried to hide her feelings from him, wanting not to worry him with trivial things when they were dealing with something much more important.

“Wasn’t anybody special,” she said with a wave of her hand, hoping he would go back to the conversation he’d been having with Vlad and Luka.

But he wasn’t ready to give in.

“Lauren, tell me.”

“The hotel in Hawaii called.” She didn’t have to explain further.

He looked surprised, much like she felt, though granted, she had thought very little about their honeymoon over the past couple of weeks. Seeing the expression on his face, she tried for a smile, wanting to wipe the worry away.

“It’s fine, Mish. We can reschedule.” He still didn’t look convinced. “Besides, I doubt you can go skinny-dipping with me so soon.”

That cleared it right up, at least until Luka added his two cents.

“Can I—”

“Finish that statement and die.”

“Christ, Boss, you’re no fun.”



Amber dropped by some days later, pretending not to notice the heavily armed men that were hovering around the apartment. She was carrying something rather large covered in newspaper, refusing to let anyone touch it.

“What the hell do you think I’m smuggling in here anyway?” She asked Turner when he made a move to grab it. “If I wanted to hurt Mishca, I’d stick a paintbrush up his ass.”

Luka, who had been drinking soda, spat it out, all over one of the guards who was standing next to him, less than amused. “Can we keep her?”

“Just ignore them,” Lauren said, hugging her closest friend. “I do.”

“And how are you, Mish? You look pretty spry.”

If Luka would have said something like that, Mishca would have glared at the man, but since it was Amber, and she was only trying to make him feel better, he smiled.

“Do you want a tour of the place?” Lauren asked.

“Sure, but I want to give you two your wedding present first.”

Amber handed over the wrapped package with a proud smile, waving her hands impatiently for them to open it.

It only took a few seconds of ripping paper to unveil the canvas beneath, and the portrait on the front took Lauren’s breath away. She vaguely remembered Amber taking pictures during the wedding, but she had thought it was more for her than what it turned out to be.

The portrait wasn’t just a blown up image that she had taken, rather an intricate recreation that Amber had painted. It was done in black and white, and if Lauren hadn’t known Amber better, she would have never believed that it was hand-crafted. Down in the right hand corner, in the smallest of scripts, was Amber’s signature.

“Amber, it’s beautiful.”

“Luchshe, chem ya mog sebe predstavit’—Better than I could have imagined,” Mishca added.

“Oh stop,” Amber admonished though she did look pleased at the praise.

They sat and talked together for a while longer until Amber had gone and Mishca was alone in his office, staring at the bottle of amber liquid he had been forbidden to drink. Never in his life had he wanted a drink more.

Later that night, Mishca reclined back against the headboard, listening to Lauren move around in the bathroom. The shooting hung over them in different ways. She worried for him while he worried for her.

That was what love was.

The door creaked open, the light turning off as Lauren came out. Her eyes were downcast as she crossed to the bed, making him wish he knew what she was thinking. She was better at hiding from him than he originally thought.

As she lay beside him, curling into his side, the overwhelming relief she felt at having him beside her made her close her eyes. It didn’t matter that it had been almost a week since he came home. It all still felt new. She had never been more thankful for anything in her life.

She gently rested her hand in the center of his chest, right over the wound. With her, he didn’t feel any pain.

When she finally drifted off, he relaxed, but his mind was far from eased.





Klaus kept his hood up as he entered the warehouse in the heart of Brooklyn, heading towards the service elevator in the rear. Stepping inside, he found the black call box against the wall, punching a series of keys before dropping his hand when the gate slammed shut, the lift slowly descending. The farther down it went, the more noise began to filter through the walls, the shouting nearly masking the sound of the bell dinging as he stepped off.

Two floors beneath the surface of the warehouse was a place called Valhalla, an underground fighting ring that cared less about rules and more about profit. It was named from the Norse mythological land where slain soldiers were brought, hoping for endless meals and barmaids, but most of the people that came here were just hoping to make it out and live another day.

The giant room was composed of mostly concrete, stained with years worth of old blood and bodily fluids. There was no place to land comfortably if a fighter lost their footing…and even worse, if their opponent just wanted to slam their head against the ground.

Currently, two half-naked men were in the center of the makeshift ring, both bruised and sweaty, blood caked on their faces as well as their limbs. They circled each other, both looking for weaknesses, though it was glaringly obvious that neither of them knew what they were doing for real.