Page 2 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Anton

I t’s cold.

Fucking Moscow springs are just a mild winter.

I hate it, but I need it.

Cold keeps me sharp.

I exhale slowly through my nose and flex my gloved fingers once. The weight of the GSh-18 in my palm is familiar.

Comforting.

The gun had been a gift after my first hit.

And now it’s a part of me. The Ka-bar on my thigh and the second gun stuffed into my boot feel like a uniform.

My eyes are fixed on the warehouse door across the alley. I got the call thirty minutes ago.

Two guards posted out front, both more interested in their phones than the job they’re being paid to fail at.

I’m told there are at least four men inside.

And those are the ones I have to be worried about.

As if.

I check my watch. Dmitri’s late.

Again.

I just want to get this shit done. I don’t know why I need a second. I work alone. They call me to handle this shit because I’m the best. It’s insulting they think I need back up.

Have I not proven myself a hundred times?

Maybe it’s more than a hundred. I don’t know.

Unlike other assassins, I don’t keep count.

My body count doesn’t matter. One dead man is the same as the next.

Knowing how many men I’ve killed doesn’t make me a big man.

It doesn’t make me scarier or more dangerous.

If I can take out one, I can take out a hundred.

If Dmitri doesn’t hurry the fuck up, I’m just going to take care of this. He can explain to Yuri why I handled the job on my own.

No. I can’t do that. I won’t put Dmitri at risk.

A shadow peels off from the corner to my right. I don’t react. I recognize the outline of my best friend. The one man on this planet who knows me. He’s tall, broad, and grinning like we’re about to play poker instead of commit murder.

“Anton,” Dmitri says, tossing a piece of gum into his mouth. “You miss me?”

“I miss silence,” I mutter.

He claps a hand on my shoulder, hyped up like we’re heading to a soccer match. “You need me tonight. Gonna be a fun one.”

“I don’t need a sidekick.”

He snorts. “Don’t call me a sidekick. I’m not Robin to your Batman.”

“No,” I say, stepping forward into the darkness. “Robin’s useful.”

“Brat.” But he follows anyway, low and quiet now that we’re closer.

I don’t have to explain the plan. There is no plan. We go in and handle the situation. That’s the benefit of being ruthless Bratva soldiers. No conscience. No thoughts about the reasons or backstories. A hit is a hit. If we fail, we die.

That's it. That's the whole thing. Simple.

I've been shot three times. Stabbed twice. Had my ribs broken with a crowbar while tied to a chair in some basement that smelled like piss and motor oil. The scars on my back tell stories I don't share with anyone, not even Dmitri. Pain… pain is just a reminder I’m alive. Without that reminder I don’t think I would know I was alive because on the inside—I’m dead.

Dmitri, despite his size, is silent as a ghost as we split up. They’ll never see us coming. They’ll feel no fear until my blade is slicing across their throat.

I move through this world like a ghost, untouchable and untouched. Every beating, every bullet, every blade just proved what I already knew—I'm not built like other men. I'm built to endure. Built to survive. Built to kill.

The warehouse looms ahead, and I feel nothing. No adrenaline spike. No quickened pulse. Just the mental mapping of where bodies will fall. This is what I am. This is what they made me.

I don't give a fuck about the men inside. I don't give a fuck about their families or their reasons or their last words. I don't give a fuck about the politics or whatever territorial bullshit this is about. I don't even give a fuck about the money.

I just do the job. I always do the job.

Death doesn't scare me because I've been dead inside for so long I can't remember what it felt like to be alive.

We take out the guards first. Neither man even drops his phone. Dmitri looks at me and nods once. I slip my knife into the sheath strapped to my leg. I pull the gun and return the nod. He pulls open the door with me at his back, my hand on his shoulder and my other holding my gun.

We hear men talking deeper inside. I don’t care what they’re saying. It’s not my job to spy. I pat Dmitri’s shoulder twice and slide into the shadows to his left. We’ll flank and fire.

And then I hear a man sobbing. And then he’s screaming. Is he one of ours? Yuri didn’t say this was a rescue. I inwardly sigh and wonder if we’re taking out one of our own.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Anyone that talked was a traitor. I knew the warehouse was enemy territory. Someone was likely dumb enough to get caught. Durak. My lips curl with disgust.

I step behind crates and see my target. There are four men standing around.

I know them. The enemy. But it’s the man tied to a chair that confuses me.

He’s not one of ours. He’s naked except for his white underwear that is stained with blood.

Blood stains his chest and thighs. Clearly, he’s pissed someone off.

I quickly dismiss the thought. Not my problem.

There are three men closest to me. I almost smile.

That’s going to piss Dmitri off. I get three and he gets one.

Maybe I’ll let him kill the guy in the chair to even things out.

I pause, silently counting to three and then I take the first shot.

I don’t hesitate when the first man drops.

I take out the second. I hear the shot from Dmitri’s gun and the third man falls.

And of course, that gives the fourth the few seconds needed to pull his gun and shoot in my general direction. I aim but before I can pull the trigger, his face explodes.

Dmitri steps out from the shadows with a grin on his face. “You’re greedy,” he says to me.

I move out from behind the crates and join him in front of the man staring wide-eyed at us.

“Who are you?” Dmitri asks him.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him.

“You’re not curious?”

The man is whimpering and begging for his life. He thrashes, making the chair screech across the concrete.

“Please,” he gasps. “I’ll pay. Whatever you want. I’ll pay and disappear.”

Dmitri arches one of those bushy eyebrows that I give him shit about all the time. He’s mastered the ability to raise just one—a trick I have not learned. His blue eyes hold a question. I shake my head in reply.

“No,” I tell him.

He wants the money to add to our stash. We’ll kill the man anyway, but it’s messy.

Dmitri sighs and turns to look at the man. “Who are you?”

I crouch in front of the man and study him. I don’t recognize him.

“Oh shit!” Dmitri throws his head back and lets out a laugh. He uses the barrel of his gun to poke at the man’s forehead. “Remember?”

I get to my feet once again, my six foot two height towers over the man still sitting and edges just an inch over Dmitri. “No. I don’t care.”

“He came to the restaurant a few months ago,” Dmitri says. “With the offer.”

The way he says it and his blue eyes flashing with irritation has me taking another look at the man. I look beyond the bruises and blood.

“ Krysy ,” I hiss. “You’re a rat.”

The man starts shaking his head. “I can help. I can tell you anything you want to know.”

He tried to sell out his own crew. He came to us looking for money. We pay him and he tells us about our rival. Rats are rats. We never deal with rats. I don’t care if he tried to help. I almost feel bad we killed his torturers too soon. He deserves more.

Dmitri agrees. I know he does by that look in his eyes and the smirk on his lips. “You remember when we took out that banker in Prague?” he asks casually.

I nod once, pulling a blade from my belt.

“He pissed himself before we even cut the tape on his mouth,” Dmitri says, grinning. “Amateur.”

“Unfortunate,” I murmur, dragging the tip of the blade down the rat’s collarbone. “I like them conscious.”

“You like them terrified,” Dmitri says.

“And you like hearing yourself talk.”

“Can’t both be true?”

The man tries to pull away. I let the blade nick him—just a taste of what’s coming.

“You ever think about that guy in Berlin?” Dmitri says conversationally. “The one who begged us to kill his wife first?”

I chuckle, a sound that doesn’t quite reach my throat. “He cried more when I slit the dog’s throat.”

I did not cut the dog’s throat. I’m not a monster. But for some reason, that always scares people more, like only the real sociopaths would murder an innocent animal. I haven’t crossed that line yet.

He struggles again, frantic. His eyes bounce between us—between my silence and Dmitri’s grin.

“Should I get the blowtorch?” Dmitri asks like he’s asking if I want fries with my burger.

“I brought pliers.”

“God, I love you,” Dmitri mutters.

I arch a brow at him. “That’s deeply concerning.”

“I’d probably have a crush on you if you ever smiled.”

“I do smile.”

“When?” He moves behind the man. It enhances the fear. He can’t see Dmitri and doesn’t know what’s coming.

“Usually when you leave.”

He laughs, running the barrel of his gun across the back of the man’s head. The sound of liquid trickling onto the concrete and the scent of urine fills the air.

I glance up at Dmitri. He grins. I’m not sure who’s more twisted. Dmitri has an easy smile and is rarely serious. He’s the Yin to my Yang. The light to my dark. At least, that’s what people think. Dmitri is a stone-cold killer. He just doesn’t seem to let it get to him.

I’m suddenly bored. I take my knife and quickly slice across his throat. The last words are garbled and wet. I let them hang in the air as I wipe my blade on the man’s hair before I slide it back into the sheath. The chair groans as he slumps forward, dead weight.

“So… now the club?” Dmitri asks as we walk out of the warehouse.

“No.”

“Come on,” he says. “You need to get laid. Blow off some steam. Hell, I’ll even let you pick first.”

“Not interested.”

“Anton, I know you’re into that whole brooding lone wolf shit, but seriously. Women exist. You don’t have to keep screwing that punching bag of yours.”

“I’m not screwing the punching bag.”

“Could’ve fooled me. The last time I dropped by, it looked like you were trying to destroy it.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

Dmitri squints at me. “You used to be in the mood.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

I open the car door without answering.

“You’re going to die alone,” he says.

“That’s the plan.”

He mutters something in Russian and steps back.

I don’t care. I drive away without looking back. Ten years ago, we’d kill and then go to the club to pick up women and fuck until we passed out. It was how we worked through the adrenaline.

Not anymore.

I find no joy in random fucking. There’s only one person I want under me. One woman I want to bury myself deep inside. She’s the reason I’ve stopped touching anyone else. No woman will ever compare to her. And I don’t even know what it feels like to be inside her.

But I do know what she tastes like. The way her icy-blue eyes fill with desire when I touch her. The smell of her. Strawberries and vanilla. Sweet. Beautiful. That’s who I take to bed every night. Even if it’s only in my dreams.

I get back to my apartment and take the stairs up to the third floor.

The building is owned by the Orlov Bratva.

It’s one of the newer buildings in Moscow and considered luxury.

I know the corners that were cut. But it’s comfortable.

I sit on the chair I keep near the door.

It’s a must. I take off my boots and notice dried blood.

I place my boots on the plastic tray I keep near the door for this exact reason.

I leave my boots and walk into my bedroom. It’s one of two bedrooms. The place is far too nice for a man like me.

I strip off my clothes and step into the shower. Hot water sluices down my body, turning pink as it hits the tile. I scrub away blood that isn’t mine and try not to see her face in the steam.

The memory still plays like a reel behind my eyes—soft mouth, sharp tongue. The girl who kissed me like she wasn’t afraid.

The only one who’s ever made me feel like I was more than the sum of my sins.

Stupid.

She ruined me.

I towel off, pull on a pair of boxer briefs and walk straight into the workout room. My fists curl, and I go at the punching bag just like Dmitri knew I would. The leather groans beneath each strike, swinging wildly as I lay into it.

Left. Right. Elbow. Hook.

It’s my ritual. I can’t sleep until I work out the frustration the woman has left me with. I hit until my arms no longer want to cooperate.

I walk into the kitchen, pull the bottle of Stolichnaya from the fridge and pour myself a glass. The vodka slides down my throat as I stare out the window.

It’s early for me. Not yet one in the morning.

I should sleep. I never know when I’m going to get pulled in to handle a job and be up for days.

I take another drink and close my eyes, allowing myself to think about the blonde, blue-eyed woman that I will never have.