Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(5)

“Speaking of, what does Agent Thirty-One have to say about this debacle?” Gaiman asks.

“I’ll deal with that later,” I snap. “For now, I put one man in charge.”

Right on cue, there’s a knock on the door.

“Enter,” I bark.

Pietro opens the door and steps inside. The man is about a head shorter than I am. His short blonde hair is gelled back against his head. His eyes flicker nervously between Jax and Gaiman before they finally land on me.

“Where is my wife?” I ask.

Pietro juts out his chin. “It-it-it wasn’t our fault.”

Big mistake. There’s a difference between holding your own and showing disrespect. I wonder if the man knows what he’s done or if he’s too stupid to grasp the consequences just yet.

“What happened?”

“We had our sights on the girl,” he says. “She came through the door like she was supposed to, but…

“But what?”

“... There was another car.” He swallows and continues, “It was dark. The car was camouflaged. We didn’t even see it until—sir, the girl ran right for it. It happened too fast.”

“Girl?” I repeat. “That girl is my wife. Which makes her your boss. And, in this instance, your one fucking responsibility.”

“I’m sorry, but she—”

I backhand him suddenly and with so much force that his head snaps to the side. It’s an insult more than anything. One that’s meant to wound his pride. When he looks back to me, I can see it’s worked.

“Don Solovev,” he says, lowering his eyes. “Forgive me. I should have done more.”

“You should have done fucking everything!” I roar. “Everything it took to get her back! I gave you this job because I thought you were competent. What the hell were you doing while she ran in the wrong fucking direction? Eating fucking popcorn?”

“Boss—”

This time when I hit him, I use my fist.

The moment I connect with his face and feel something break, I feel a surge of satisfaction. It makes me want to land another punch. To break more and more until there’s nothing left.

The bloodthirst is harder to squelch once it rises to the surface.

“When I hand down a mission, I expect success,” I snarl as Pietro stumbles backwards. “At the bare minimum, I expect competency.”

He raises his head to say something. I don’t give him the chance. And when I hit him for a third time, he crumples to the ground.

I stand over him as blood pours from his nose. He blinks furiously, trying to get his bearings before more pain descends upon him.

Jax and Gaiman converge around me. They know better than to get involved when I’m meting out punishment, but I can sense their apprehension.

I clench my fist and close my eyes. “Get out, Pietro. Before I end you.”

Pietro scrambles to his feet and sprints for the door on unsteady legs. I stay still until the sound of his footsteps has disappeared.

When he’s gone, I turn and slam my still clenched fist down on the table. “FUCK!”

Then, with the sound of my rage still reverberating around the room, I pick up my phone and dial the number of the person I really want to talk to. I let it ring three times before I hang up.

“Leave,” I tell Jax and Gaiman as I sink into my chair. “Both of you.”

They don’t argue.

The moment they’re out of the room, my phone starts ringing. The number is cloaked, so I know who to expect.

“Where?” I growl.

“Corner of River and Third. Forty minutes.”

Then the line goes dead.

Cursing, I grab my keys and storm out of the office. Jax and Gaiman are on the other side of the door, but neither one asks where I’m going.

I’m at the corner of River and Third in twenty minutes. It doesn’t make sense to have come early, but my adrenaline is pumping. I need fucking answers. What I don’t need is to sit and brood in my office. The devil knows I’ve done plenty of that this week.

I wait on a downslope next to a bridge, hidden from the sight of cars passing overhead. The sound of the river running melts into the traffic sounds. A blur of white noise to blot out my senses and give me a moment’s peace from the endless fucking thinking.

Despite all that, I know the minute she’s arrived. The expensive whiff of Chanel might as well be a bell.

“Hey, big guy,” she says with a confidence that belies her body language.

She stops a few feet away from me. Her long blonde tresses blow softly in the wind. She’s always been beautiful, but her beauty has taken on a different quality in recent years. It’s sharper. Colder.

Underneath all that, though, she looks deranged.

I always knew there’d be a cost. I said as much to her all those years ago. But she chose to walk into the darkness anyway.

“What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t even get a hug?” she asks.

“Cut the shit. We’re not here to exchange pleasantries.”

She shakes her head, disappointed. “I almost thought you’d be happy to see me. It’s been a while, Leo. How long now—a year? Maybe longer.”

“You want to catch up? Pretend like shit is normal.” I ask. “Fine. But drop the mask.”