Page 4

Story: Sinful Ruin

That's exactly what I did tonight.

May this be a lesson learned for Dima.

As he reads the contract, I approach Carlisle’s desk. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in his office. Carlisle sold me and others who’d pay top dollar for insider trading.

Speaking of Carlisle …

He’s seated in his chair, dead as a fucking doornail.

His soul delivered to hell.

I’ve staged enough murders into suicides that I know the wound was self-inflicted. I wish he’d waited until I arrived to pull the trigger. I’d have gladly done it for him.

My attention shifts from his dead body to Genesis.

She’s far more entertaining as she grips the bookshelf as if preparing for an earthquake. I can’t help but chuckle when I notice the family photo behind her.

All smiles from the parents who sold her out.

Nine times out of ten, greed prevails over bloodlines. Loyalty is the hardest heirloom to keep in this world.

Her eyes are wide, and the hand gripping the bookshelf shakes. She’s in a room full of cold-blooded killers. With me at the front of the line.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see Dima’s still reading the contract. Either he’s illiterate or in shock that his father would make a deal that undermined him.

“He went behind my back,” Dima hisses before shoving the contract into his blazer pocket and narrowing his eyes at me. “Youwent behind my back.”

I scoff.

The idiot believes I owe him loyalty?

He could be in the direct line of a moving train, and I wouldn’t offer him a helping hand. I’d push him further in front of it.

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Nah, I’m just a better businessman, Dima.”

All eyes are on me when I grab Carlisle’s lit cigar from the ashtray. I brush off the tip and offer it to Dima. He waves his hand through the air in disdain.

In his world, only one man can disrespect him. Yaroslav Morozova, his father, a notorious Bratva boss. Dima is next in line to take over the boss position.

I extend the cigar to the man on Dima’s right. He shakes his head.

The other, who I know as Kuzma, bites.

Not that I blame the man who’s merely a soldier.

It’s a Cohiba Behike cigar.

Expensive and, since they’re illegal in the States, extremely rare to find.

If Carlisle’s slobbery, repulsive lips hadn’t touched it, I’d keep it for myself.

The moment Kuzma accepts the cigar, Dima curses and snatches it from him. He flips Kuzma’s palm to snuff the cigar into it. Kuzma howls in pain, attempting to tug away from him. Dima adds more pressure.

I roll my eyes in boredom.

Cigar burns are child’s play.

Yaroslav should train his men to torture better. Dima should’ve at least gone for one of the eyes.