The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(63)



“I have a very familiar face.”

It was time for him to get out of there. He didn’t want to be stuck in enemy territory if Bastian did remember how they knew each other, and he definitely didn’t want him yelling it out.

Luka glanced down at his watch, pretending to check the time. “Shit, I have a run for Naz.”

“Wait,” Bastian called as Luka stood, heading towards the back exit without a glance back.

He’d gotten what he came for, now he just needed to report back so they could strategize.

In the back alley, Luka heard Bastian trying to stay silent as he snuck up on him, but even if he hadn’t trained himself to listen to even the softest of steps—hating anyone at his back—Luka would have been able to hear what sounded like a dump truck behind him. Anxiety shot through him, that age old fear trying to take him over, but he couldn’t f*ck this up, not with what was at stake.

He kept walking.

Bastian blitzed him, using his weight to shove Luka against the brick wall, one hand fisted in his hair as he kept his cheek pressed against it. Luka breathed deeply through his nose, trying to remain calm. He swore to himself that he wasn’t going to kill him, despite all he had done to Luka in the past.

“You think I wouldn’t remember you,” Bastian grunted, his sour breath fanning over Luka’s face.

At his words, the tension in Luka’s body shot up as he went on the defensive.

“I’d remember you anywhere.”

It didn’t matter anymore. Luka wasn’t the same little helpless boy he had been back in those days, but Bastian was still the same sick f*ck.

He had the information he needed from him, and Luka knew that the next morning, when they found Bastian’s body, it wouldn’t be reported.

At that moment, he cleared his mind, blocking everything out as he shifted his stance slightly, throwing his elbow back into the man’s gut, breaking free with ridiculous ease. Bastian looked surprise for all of a second before he tried to throw himself at Luka, making him laugh as he dodged his futile punches.

It amazed him how different Bastian appeared now that Luka had the power.

Striking out, Luka hit him in the trachea—as Klaus had done to him—cutting off his cry of alarm. With a single kick, Luka broke his leg. Bastian fell to the ground, wheezing as he tried in vain to call for help, but there was no one that could help him now.

“Are you afraid?” Luka asked as he crouched down beside him, his lips turning up at the corners as he reached for the butterfly knife in his pocket. “Shh, it won’t hurt for long.”

The words were like second nature to him as he saw the familiar fear finally enter his eyes. They had been spoken to him often enough that he could perfectly match the tone and pitch of Bastian’s voice. It was a heady feeling, having this kind of control over another’s life. It wasn’t something Luka took for granted.

“If it makes it any easier, I’ll go slow.”

And that was what he did. First, he took the man’s tongue, then cut off each one of his fingers until both hands were just bloody stumps. Lastly, he slit the man’s throat from ear to ear.

The act didn’t necessarily make Luka feel any better, despite what he had initially believed, but there was a blessed numbness that crept through him, putting his thoughts at ease. It wouldn’t last long, probably until he finished cutting through the man’s body, but he would enjoy that peace of mind for as long as it would last.



Luka was glad Mishca had moved to a more secure location, one that was run by men on their payroll. It wasn’t that he disliked the last apartment, but he couldn’t stand outside smoking a cigarette, covered in blood at that one.

The nicotine heated his lungs as he drew in, slowly exhaling as he chased the calm he’d felt earlier. That was how it had always been.

Once he took a life, he idly stood by listening to their screaming pleas in his head, and smoked until he could no longer hear them. They wondered why he spouted nonsense, but he found peace in constant conversation, laughter…anything but the silence.

He hated silence.

“Shit, what happened to you?”

Luka turned, spying Alex walking up to him, her eyes trailing over him slowly. They’d never been around each other much, in part because she’d been in France for years, but also because Mishca preferred none of them go near her.

Not that Luka ever would despite his predilection for pissing Mishca off. Some things he knew were off limits.

But he loved testing those boundaries…and his own.

“Pigeons,” he answered, taking another drag of his cigarette. “They’re blood thirsty little beasts.”

He expected her to roll her eyes, call him crazy, and walk off, but she did none of that, propping her hip against the brick wall beside her instead. It wasn’t that Luka was trying to notice—he was actually making a conscious effort not to—but she made it hard for him…ever since he brought her to the safe house months ago.

He had never told Mishca how he had found her, valuing his face too much to have that conversation, but the image was seared into his brain, and he doubted he would be forgetting it anytime soon.

“Right. Is there something I can do? Towel, maybe?”

He smirked, amused by her question though inside he was a bit shocked by her offer. His family in the Bratva didn’t particularly care what happened to him after the job was done, not that he could really blame any of them since he made a habit of f*cking with them when he wasn’t needed.

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