Until the End (Volkov Bratva #2)(3)

Just as she’d thought, Sebastian was the only man in the room.

Quickly running a hand through her hair, Naomi stepped out of the shadows, drawing his attention to her.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Naomi said, fingering the front clasp of her dress.

He cleared his throat, stepping away from the case to walk over to her, his eyes immediately drifting down to where her breasts were exposed.

She beckoned him closer with a crook of her finger and he was none the wiser to the Taser she held behind her. As he was leaning down to kiss her, she struck, shocking him with enough voltage to drop a three-hundred pound man.

She caught him as his body seized, easing him to the ground.

Now, there was nothing preventing her from taking the one thing she sought. She was the best at what she did and she had no fear of the consequences of her actions.

Her arrogance afforded her that luxury.

She stepped over Sebastian’s body, knowing she only had a few minutes left. They might not have believed in security, but one of the Albanians’ men would be coming down shortly to retrieve it and her window of opportunity would be lost.

Peeking around the corner, she checked one last time to make sure she was truly alone before hurrying over to the case, slipping on a pair of gloves to remove the glass.

And there it was.

Naomi smiled in satisfaction as she stared down at her newest possession, plucking the stone from its bed of velvet. What little light there was in the room glinted off the diamond, a rainbow of color splashing against the floor.

Not wanting to push her luck, Naomi wrapped it in a cloth, tucking it away into her cleavage as she sauntered out of the mansion.

Now that her work was done, she would be on the first flight out of the country, making her way to South Africa where she knew another score awaited her. She had no regrets about the men she had used to gain her latest possession, she pitied them.

With them, she hadn’t tried hard at all before they crumbled in her hands.





The Catacombs

Albanian Stronghold

Seven days later…

Beneath the mansion was an underground passageway leading to a narrow opening of a place that the Albanian Mob affectionately deemed The Catacombs. Like most underground tunnels that bore the name, the slightly damp under space was littered with the remains of human bodies, their bones—especially the skulls—used as decorating ornaments.

Except this place was anything but a place of religious practices.

It might have been medieval in design, but Jetmir Besnik preferred it this way. It gave his macabre acts a more theatrical feel.

It was in this decrepit place of despair that Sebastian—Naomi’s other lover—kneeled on the ground, sharp rocks biting into his knees. His body was racked with shivers, his clothes long since torn, his blood darkening the fabric.

One eye was swollen shut, the other had been hit so brutally that the blood vessels inside it burst, turning the white startlingly red. He had already soiled himself, fear paralyzing him as he faced the men that would soon take his life.

Jetmir didn’t know what he was more upset about: the fact that the zusk? had stolen from him, or that this gomar had disrespected him. Either way, the rules were in place for a reason, and anyone that broke them would pay the price.

Grabbing the can of gasoline himself, Jetmir poured the contents all over Sebastian’s head, turning deaf ears to his cries for mercy. He’d even begun to whisper a jaunty tune, one that even made his colleagues glance at each other warily.

Jetmir didn’t bother saying anything more, it was beneath him. He didn’t have to announce that this was a lesson to the men surrounding him.

They all knew.

Striking a match, Jetmir tossed it onto the doused man, watching in grim satisfaction as he burst into flames, his cries growing louder as he writhed helplessly on the ground, his skin slowly melting off.

The stench of burning flesh filled the cavern and as Sebastian stopped moving, Jetmir clapped his hands together, turning to face the men that stood at his back, the burning man behind him providing a gruesome backdrop.

“Find her.”

They were the only two words he needed to speak.

Naomi Le Feuvre’s fate was sealed.





May

It was a cool Monday afternoon, the sun was shining, the shielded petals of new flowers blooming, but as Lauren Thompson sat in the interrogation room facing a murder charge, it was hard to see any beauty in the world, especially the one she had found herself in. Months ago, she had stood on the other side of the glass, staring in at the man that helped murder her father.

Now, the only thing she could see was her own reflection.

Long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, eyes the shade of warm honey, bloodshot and tired. Overall, she looked sickly, like she had been to hell and back, and in some ways…she had.

Not many took on the Russian Mob and lived to tell about it.

Though to be completely honest, she didn’t know why Mikhail—the Pakhan of the Volkov Bratva—had let her leave that room. Sure, he had given her a warning and she knew the consequences of what would happen if she ever talked, but realistically, she was still a loose end.

That was what Viktor’s murder was about. He wasn’t killed just because he ordered a hit that the Pakhan didn’t sanction. He was killed because of the problems he brought down on their organization. He could not have known that by killing Lauren’s father, he would start a domino effect that would take place fifteen years later, but he let greed and power blind him, along with the lure of a beautiful woman.