Until the End (Volkov Bratva #2)(35)

At the front counter, she retrieved her card from the clerk. Smiling, Lauren said, “Have a great day.”

As she was walking away, the clerk called, “Please tell Mr. Volkov his invoice will be sent to his email.”

Dammit Mishca.





Mishca was in an uncharacteristically good mood as he stood in a warehouse surrounded by large wooden crates, but it wasn’t the man standing across from him in all leather that had him rather calm in the middle of an arms deal.

Since Viktor had supplied most of the guns to their clientele, Mishca and Mikhail had split the list. Mishca had a few motorcycle clubs as well as businessmen looking for military grade weaponry. Mikhail’s were similar though his included men that were seen in the public eye and were more willing to work with someone of Mikhail’s age.

Mishca was happy that he finally had something to look forward to after he was done. He could never have imagined this, having someone that knew him, inside and out, and not just the parts he chose to show.

The gruff looking biker, along with a select number of his club, were perusing the automatic weapons Mishca had brought, testing them on dummies Mishca’s men had set up in the back.

They had only been doing business together for the last six months, and after a rocky start—mostly the president’s surprise at Mishca’s age, which never got old—things had gone steady since. There had been a few negotiations on the price when Mishca first approached them with the new deal, and Mishca were in their position, he might have tried to pull one over on someone as young as him, but Mishca wasn’t the average twenty-five-year old.

“Fifty thousand for the AK’s, ten for the handguns,” The Pres said holding up a duffle bag full of wrapped bundles of cash.

Nodding absently, Mishca signaled for Sergei to collect the money, distracted by his chiming cell phone.



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Since the hotel, Mishca had wanted Lauren around more, much to her joy. Her things were now split between the brownstone and Mishca’s apartment in the city. Realistically, she had nothing to complain about.

She—

“Well…I guess some things never change.”

Lauren dropped the shirt she was hanging, turning to face the girl that stood in the closet doorway. In a skintight blue dress, she was beautiful with wavy blonde hair that was darker at the roots.

“Are you here for Mishca?” She asked, not knowing what else to say, her gaze focusing on the gold key dangling from a chain in her hand.

“Come up with that on your own, did you?”

Lauren frowned, watching her run manicured fingers through her blonde hair. “He isn’t here. How about you leave and call him?”

“It’s cute that you think you can tell me what to do.”

She had nails like claws, painted a deep maroon color that was only lightly lighter than the shade she wore on her lips.

“What’s your name, dear? He always loved little girls with common names.”

She had an accent, a stronger one of the version Alex had. Maybe she was French. Lauren didn’t doubt that Mishca had relations with the girl, not when she was acting proprietary though Lauren had never heard of her…not that she even knew what her name was.

“I don’t think my name matters. Who are you.”

The front door opened and closed, the sound carrying to the closet, but Lauren stood where she was, refusing to take her eyes off of her. She was secretly glad Mishca had come back early.

“Lauren?”

“In here.”

He appeared in the doorway some moments later, his gaze straying between two of them, his entire demeanor shifting as he focused on the girl.

“Naomi.”

She wiggled her fingers at him and without a word, closed the distance between them and proceeded to stick her tongue down her throat. Mishca didn’t react at first, but a heartbeat later, firmly set her away from him.

“Ne nachinayte eto der’mo—Don’t start this shit.”

At least he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. She couldn’t believe the nerve of this girl.

“Could you excuse us,” Mishca asked looking directly at Lauren.

A little hurt, no, a lot hurt, she asked, “You want me to leave?”

He shook his head, frowning at her. “Of course not, Naomi is leaving, now.”





It had been ages since Mishca had last seen Naomi Le Feuvre, but even that time seemed too short. Once, he had gladly welcomed her as a distraction from his father’s betrayal so long ago, but after she had walked out on him, he had grew to understand that she was a toxic addition to his already unhealthy lifestyle. He would be damned if she came in now trying to destroy what he had built.

“What do you want, Naomi?”

She trailed her nails down the center of his chest, digging in slightly with a serene smile. “I came for you. Come now, Mishca. Haven’t you missed me at all?”

“No.” That wiped the smile off her face.

“That wouldn’t be because of that na?ve little twat that’s playing house, would it?” She didn’t wait for an answer, reading his expression. “She is. You can’t possibly feel something for her.”

“Doesn’t matter, she doesn’t concern you. Walk away, Naomi, before I forget that you crossed me.”