Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(37)

Vitaly forced a smiled, clearing his throat as though he were uncomfortable.

“He has made me plenty of money over the years, but he has betrayed the Bratva, and I want him dead.”

Vitaly started to protest, shaking his head as though that would help his case, but before he could utter a word, Valon unsheathed one of the knives he kept on him, tossing it with unwavering accuracy, watching as it sunk into the man’s chest like butter.

While Mikhail didn’t outwardly show he was impressed, the others tried in vain to close their gaping mouths. Valon could practically hear their thoughts. He was a lot faster than they originally believed.

He stepped toward the man, jerking his knife free, plunging it in one last time and giving it a jerk to the right before pulling it free again. The man sputtered for half a second before slumping forward, blood oozing from the wound in his chest.

Wiping the blade off on the back of the man’s jacket, Valon went back to his spot by the door, rocking back and forth on his heels as he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at Mikhail expectantly. It was pretty clear that no one seemed to know what to think of him. No one had ever just walked in and killed someone without any hesitation.

For all he knew, he could have just murdered an undercover cop or someone who had significant power in this state, but no one could do to him anything that hadn’t already been done, and there was nothing for him to fear.

Looking mildly impressed, Mikhail asked, “What is your name, boy?”

If he gave him his real name, Valon knew that wouldn’t work in his favor, especially since Mikhail had been the one to give the kill order in the first place, though he had never bothered to show at the meetings himself. From this point on, he had to bury his past as best he could. Start over and live as freely as he could until the Albanians found him or they discovered the truth of his identity.

It was stupid, it was reckless, but Valon had never been one to follow the rules anyway.

“Luka,” he answered, thinking of his mother one last time, and the name she had always wanted for him. “Luka Sergeyev.”





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Acknowledgements

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First, as always, I have to thank my readers. Without you all, I would not be able to do what I love most (and that’s writing books if you didn’t know!). Where would the Volkov Bratva be without every single one of you??

Next, of course, there’s H. Thank you for always lending an ear while I spazzed out trying to write this thing. I would have given up a long time ago without you.

Jenny, without you, this thing would have been riddled with errors, but you are an editing goddess, and I love you. (Please always remember this when I send you a manuscript at the last minute because I’m sure it’s bound to happen again.) Love,