Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(93)

I know each one by name. I know what they’re capable of doing. And I also know Belov’s men are as unreliable as mine are deadly. It is about to be a motherfucking slaughter.





By the time we get to Spartak’s compound, I’m so pumped up that I can practically taste the adrenaline on my tongue. The building rises up before us, squat, concrete, and fortified.

In a few short hours, it will be reduced to rubble.

“Gaiman,” I bark as we get out of the jeeps, “find Pasha and Willow. Make sure to get them out safe. Take however many men you need. They’re going to be well-guarded.”

Gaiman nods and pulls out his guns.

Jax does the same. “I’ll lead the charge.”

“No,” I say. “I will. I want that fucker to see death coming for him. You get the explosives ready.”

A few minutes later, the ground beneath us shakes as our explosives are detonated around the Mikhailov gates. The metal screams in protest, but it’s no match for the bombs. Once the dust settles, the path is clear.

I give the command for my men to drive through. “Stay in the jeeps until you have them on the defensive,” I instruct.

The line of cars is swallowed by the lingering smoke from the explosives. Before we clear the area of reduced visibility, the gunshots begin.

And I make my move.

I head inside with Jax at my back. He covers me while I look for a way into the massive mansion.

My men in the jeeps are picking off Mikhailov soldiers like fish in a barrel. There doesn’t seem to be any effort at a coordinated attack. Just flailing chaos in every direction.

Belov had to have informed the men we were coming, but they still look like amateurs on their first day of work.

And then I realize why.

None of them have the Mikhailov mark. They’re not Belov’s men. They’re the mercenaries Belov paid for.

Best fucking news I’ve heard all day.

Smiling, I jump onto one of the jeeps and hoist myself onto its roof to get a vantage of the battle unfurling all around me.

Belov’s men litter the ground, their blood soaking into the cold earth. In comparison, only two of my men look injured. We have no one dead on our side.

“You’re outmatched!” I yell, calling everyone’s attention. “In both numbers and skill. If you continue to fight, you will die. And I will show you no mercy. But lay down your weapons now and you might have a chance to fight again. To fuck again. To live.”

The mercenaries hesitate, not lowering their weapons, but no longer shooting. I don’t know how much Belov is paying them, but it can’t be enough.

My men tighten around the remaining mercs.

“What do you choose?” I ask. “You want to fight and die, or surrender and live?”

The first one to put down his gun is older. A long scar runs down his face and burn marks pepper his other cheek and shoulder.

He looks like a man who has seen it all. If he is laying down his weapon, it’s because he knows the battle is already lost.

Just as I suspected, the moment he gives up, the others follow suit. A dozen men drop their weapons, followed by a dozen more.

That’s how far loyalty gets you when it’s paid for in cash.

The only currency that matters is blood.

The only men left standing, clasping their weapons stubbornly, are ones I recognize as true Bratva. The ones who wear the mark of their leader. Who would die for him.

I look at all of them in turn. How many in total? Fifteen, maybe twenty?

“I know who you are,” I tell them. “I respect it. But the man you follow is not your don. He stole the title from a man who was born to it.”

One of the men still standing speaks up. “Don Mikhailov picked Spartak Belov to lead us.”

He’s slight in comparison to the others. Fine-boned, almost delicate. But I can see the steely-eyed resolve in his face. He’s a man who’ll fight to the death for what he believes in.

“No, he didn’t,” I say, making sure to raise my voice just in case Belov is listening from his fortress upstairs. “He didn’t choose Belov. He was fooled by Belov. And by the time he knew better, it was too late.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know more than you think,” I say. “I wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t. Belov is not Bratva. You all know that. So why do you still follow him?”

“We follow Semyon Mikhailov.”

“Semyon is dead,” I say. “Killed by the man you claim he chose.”

A murmur goes up through the crowd. Confusion. Uncertainty. Good—I can use that.

“Don’t believe me?” I press. “Go inside. You’ll find him in his wheelchair with his throat slit.”

“Why would Belov kill him now?” the man asks.

“Because he has my wife,” I snarl. “He has Viktoria Mikhailov. And he believes you will follow him because of that. Is he right?”

The determined ferocity on their faces is starting to wane a little. They’re beginning to question the path they’re on, the leader they’ve chosen to follow.

“What’s the alternative?” the slight man asks. “Follow you instead?”

“I will not ask any of you to follow me,” I say. “If your loyalty calls you to follow Viktoria, then I will welcome you as brothers. If your loyalty compels you to walk away from the Bratva life completely, I will respect that.”