The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(62)

“What are you thinking?” Luka asked folding his arms across his chest, the warped rabbit tattooed on his forearm pulling taut. “Jetmir?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“Want me to see what I can find out?”

Mishca was hesitant to give his consent, not because he didn’t want answers, but because he had no idea how this would affect Luka. It was no secret that Luka hated the Albanians…probably more than Klaus and Mishca combined. It was, however, a secret as to why he hated them so much.

“Are you sure you can do this with minimum bloodshed?”

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“You always have a choice, brother.”

When Mishca looked away from him, Luka’s gaze sought out Alex where she sat across the room.

“Not in this.”

But those words never reached Mishca’s ears.





Some minds couldn’t handle torture, it broke them.

Luka Sergeyev was a product of that kind of torture. His life was a mystery to those that knew him, even to his bosses. He had always been good at hiding the truth.

That was one of the reasons why he was glad to be working under Mishca. The Bratva Captain didn’t pry, not even when he’d entrusted Lauren’s livelihood with him.

Luka had never thought much about rising in the ranks of the Vory v Zakone, only caring that he be respected…and feared—he would much rather be feared than loved. Not since he was a boy did Luka ever care about making friends, but that innocence was stolen from him. He hadn’t even been granted a reprieve from those horrific sights, because those men had wanted him to remember every hour of every day what he had caused so many years ago. The memories didn’t dwindle away as time went on. No, they stayed in the forefront of his mind, constantly plaguing his thoughts.

It was why Luka never got close to anyone, putting up a wall to keep himself from forming attachments. Some thought he was crazy, not just because of the things he said at any given time—he’d actually always been strange that way—but because of his presumed lack of empathy. Most killers in his line of work had training, were taught not to feel anything for the people they slaughtered. Except, Luka’s ‘training’ was of the unconventional variety—and it hadn’t worked well enough. On the outside, it looked like Luka slept well at night, the crimes of his past not weighing on his subconscious, but in reality, the demons he lived with haunted every moment of his existence.

No one understood that agony.

But he was okay with that. So long as he had his job, and women willing to share his bed, he had no complaints. It didn’t matter to him that it was Lauren’s life hanging in the balance and not Mishca’s, they were both the same to him. Luka saw the way Mishca looked at her in those few unguarded moments when he thought no one was paying attention. While he might not have ever experienced the emotion himself, Luka knew true love when he saw it.

It was why he needed to get this done.

Taking out a cigarette, Luka entered the run-down bar, dropping his gaze as he walked to the other end of the room, plopping down on the barstool with a loud sigh, quickly grabbing the man’s attention beside him. It was a renowned Albanian Mob spot, one that Luka frequently visited.

Luka had similar markings as the men that came to this place, because at one point in his life, he’d been one of them.

It was nearly impossible, but Luka forced himself to relax, rolling his shoulders as he snuck a peek at the man seated near him, making sure he didn’t stare too long lest the man remember him. Though it was burned into Luka’s mind, he doubted the Albanian remembered the last time they had run into each other.

“You new here?” the Albanian, Bastian, asked.

From what he understood, he was Jetmir’s right hand now, a far cry from where he had been when Luka was around. Because he knew names and faces, Luka knew he was the only person that could find out this information.

“Yes, Naz sent me over.”

Bastian grunted, tossing back his shot before ordering another. It was a habit of his when it came to Naz. The pair hated each other more than Luka hated all of the Albanians.

Over the course of the night, Luka needed to get him drunk enough that he let his guard down, spilling secrets that he would normally keep close to his chest. It didn’t take long, just a casual mention here, an offer to buy him a drink there. By the time Bastian had consumed his tenth shot of jager, Luka was still nursing a glass of water.

Leaning against the bar top, Luka lowered his voice so only Bastian could hear him. “I heard what the Russians did to Brahim.”

“Fucking bastards, all of them. Just wait, we’ll kill them all and f*ck that bitch of his.”

Luka’s hand twitched on his glass, but otherwise, he gave no reaction to his words. “And the Russian woman with the Boss? How does she play into it?” Luka hadn’t meant to come right out with the question—any rational person would find that suspicious—but Bastian was too far gone to notice.

“Using the money from that bastard daughter of hers. She’s so hard up to take them down, she’ll do anything.”

So just as they’d thought, Anya was behind the hit, not Alex. One problem solved.

“When is Jetmir planning to strike?”

Bastian shook his head, looking at Luka intently. “You sure I don’t know you from somewhere?”