Until the End (Volkov Bratva #2)(68)

The mercenary shrugged. “Personal problem.”

“And you think they won’t find out it was you?” Mishca retorted, trying to get him to see reason. “Someone, somewhere has seen your face.”

Laughing, the mercenary pushed his mask up, over the beanie he wore to cover his hair, revealing his face for the first time.

Lauren’s gasp was audible in the decrepit building.

The mercenary looked at Mishca, a burning fury in the identical set of blue eyes they shared, so different from the broken spirit Mishca had seen before.

“I’m not the boy you used to know,” the mercenary said echoing Mishca’s thoughts. “If anyone can identify me, good. I’m counting on it.”

“Klaus—”

It was the first time Mishca had said his name in what felt like ages and it had the desired effect as he lost his maniacal smile.

“Never speak my name.”

“And how will they differentiate between us?” Mishca asked solemnly. No one had ever been able to tell the difference until you truly looked.

“I could always kill you then continue my mission.”

“You’re not going to kill me,” Mishca repeated.

“Why not?” Klaus asked with genuine confusion on his face like that had always been a part of his plan.

“Because despite your hatred for me, brother, it would be like killing yourself.”

Mishca had thought he’d made his point and finally gotten the upper hand, but he was mistaken.

“Maybe, but you’re not me,” Klaus said calmly.

Mishca hadn’t noticed the blade hidden in his palm.





Entering the building that was slated for demolition in only a few months’ time, the first thing Jetmir noticed was the smell.

There was nothing quite similar to the scent of death, but it was one he had grown used to in his thirty odd years. Yet today, that acrid smell made his jaw clench in anger.

It had taken a few days—more time than he would have wanted—to track down his brother, but now that he was here, Jetmir was not prepared for what he found.

The Russians had left him in a field far out of the city. It took hours before he could get in contact with any of his men, and even longer to hear about Brahim’s idiotic plan.

He should have listened to him, knowing that Brahim would have stood down if he would have treated him like any of the other members as opposed to a kid brother.

Brahim was beneath a hole in the ceiling, the varying weather taking its toll on his body.

Jetmir didn’t have the opportunity to prepare himself for how he would find his brother, instead, it was slapped in his face, his brother’s dead, unseeing eyes following him as he moved closer.

His skin had an unnatural pallor—the skin around his mouth blackened—his flesh better preserved because of the cold weather. Even in death, he looked like a child, far too young to have beaten Jetmir to the grave.

For once in his life, Jetmir felt remorse. It was his job to protect him, to shelter him until Brahim was ready to have a role in their syndicate.

He had failed him.

Jetmir looked down at his brother’s body, ignoring the smell of him, ignoring everything that might draw his attention away. He needed to commit this to memory, so that upon leaving, he would remember this moment.

Crouching down, he touched his brother’s eyelids, shutting them gently. At least this way, he could imagine him being at peace.

“What did you do, you stupid little shit?” Jetmir asked though he already knew the answer.

Out the corner of his eye, he could see his men turn their back, giving him the privacy he desperately craved.

Whispering a soft prayer, Jetmir stood to his full height, turning his back on the body just as quickly as he had arrived.

On his way out, Jetmir told them, “Deal with it.”

He needed to take care of something.





Putting a cigarette to his lips, Jetmir lit the end of it, watching the sickly man as he prepared Brahim’s body. He didn’t have the time to go through the hassle of getting his brother overseas, so he chose instead to have him cremated.

As the man pulled the lever, the doors opened like the gates of hell, fire licking at the edges of the steel incinerator.

The conveyor belt rattled to life as the body atop it rolled inside. It would be the last time Jetmir would lay eyes on his brother.

When the job was done and the cremator was compensated for his services, Jetmir took a private jet back to Albania, to the home that he shared with his mother.

It was known as the compound, due in part to the fact that it resembled an armed fortress, complete with enough security to man a small army.

During the hour long drive it took to get there after his plane landed, Jetmir thought of how he would tell his mother. Back during the days of his father’s rule, she was known for her strength in lieu of tragedy, but with old age and a failing mind, she was not the woman she used to be. Also, she had never lost a son, and with her fragile heart, Jetmir feared what Brahim’s demise would do to her.

The gates to the compound swung open, allowing Jetmir’s car to roll inside, slamming shut behind him.

As he stepped out of the car, he noticed the newest addition to the cars outside the mansion, knowing that his special guest was already tucked inside.

And for the first time since his brother’s body was found, Jetmir smiled.