Page 17 of Deadly Knight (The Bratva’s Elite #2)

The same afternoon the moving company packs up Katya’s home, the three of them load up in the taxi, since her parents sold their car. Her father helps the driver pack their few suitcases in the trunk while her mother slips into the backseat.

Katya pauses on her side of the car, glancing at the house she’s spent her entire life in. I wonder what she’s thinking about; which memories plague her the strongest?

For me, it’s that fucking porch. It represents the beginning, middle, and end of us.

After driving her home from the party the first official night we met, I walked her up to it, ensuring she got inside safely. She admitted then it was something her ex never did, and I regretted taking so long to introduce myself to her.

I’d seen her around school and was enthralled from the first instance.

On my first day of school when the bell rang, she was sucked into a crowd fearing being late to class, but our eyes met and I was utterly addicted.

She was dating someone, though, so I watched from afar—until the party when I got to meet her.

Something changed on the little stone steps of her home that night.

The ties between us began weaving, fusing us together.

So many times over the course of our relationship, I met her at this door. When her parents were gone, it was those steps I stood on during the agonizing minute-long wait for Katya to open the door and pull me inside, where I spent every free moment worshipping her body.

And then the end. When she ended us …broke us.

The car’s trunk slams shut when the driver and her father finish loading their luggage, and it seems to shake her from her thoughts. Katya turns away from the house and goes to slide into the backseat beside her mother.

But then she looks up, straight at me, like she knows. She can’t possibly see me from where I’m hidden amongst the shadows. If she does actually spot me, her expression doesn’t waver as I blatantly already break the deals I’ve made to leave her alone.

Katya blinks and climbs into the car, shutting the door on me and her old life—her world—before she takes off on the road to her new one.

Once the driver gets behind the wheel, the car starts out the driveway, turning right on the road. In the backseat, I see Katya as the car passes by. Her head’s down, her hair covering much of her face—robbing me of my final look.

As the car picks up speed, I step out from the shadows, and by the time it reaches the corner, I’m at the curb. Like a pathetic fucking love song, with the lovesick fool staring after the girl he loves, his only thoughts whether or not to chase her.

The car pauses at the stop sign, and the left turning light blinks. That direction will eventually take them to the airport, where she’ll be gone for good.

One phone call, and I can have that airport burned to the ground—and boy, it’s fucking tempting.

The car turns left and disappears from sight.

And that’s it.

Katya’s gone.

And like her childhood home across the street, I, too, am empty. Also now owned by another person; an organization, in my case.

Another car’s driving up the road, destroying the ghostly memory of the taxi, and I step away from the curb.

Instead of continuing by, the sleek black car rolls to a stop in front of me, now recognizable.

I’m aware the blackout windows are bulletproof and the backseat is a rich, white leather that reeks of cigar smoke and cognac.

And that its passenger will roll down the back window, and I’ll be met with the leering sneer of my father even before he does precisely that.

“You really are pathetic.”

“What are you doing here?” I step closer to the car.

“Checking on you. Must be a difficult day.” His lips form a fake frown, feigning any apologetic feeling. “Hard to lose someone the way you did.”

By my sides, my fingers press into my thighs before I reach over and snatch his neck in my grip. One day, but not right now, that fantasy will be a reality.

“Just fucking go.”

“Syn,” he croons in a low tone, his head turning to look at Katya’s empty home. “Nice real estate investment. Whatever are your plans with it?”

Imagining strangers moving into that place, invading her home, disgusted me. So I bought it by paying more money than her parents were asking for. If I can’t be with Katya in Canada, I’ll damn sure help her and her family any way I can.

I’m almost positive Katya’s father figured out I was the buyer, simply by the overpayment on a house with little inquiry, but he never reached out to ask, and I never admitted.

Either way, Katya can have the future she wants.

What I paid would alone cover her tuition, living expenses, and set her parents up in a new house.

“None of your business. I purchased it with my own money.”

“Hm.” Papa props his chin up on his hand, finger tapping slowly against his cheek. “Word on the street is you’ve been asking around for the names of the men I hired.”

“Da.” No point in denying it. I want him to know what his actions have done. “You buried your tracks well, but I’ll eventually find them.”

“Don’t bother.” Papa reaches a hand out the window and flicks a small piece of paper towards me. Gravity drops it to the cement between the car’s wheel and my feet. We both watch it land, and Papa commands, “Pick it up. Trust me.”

I’ll never trust you. But I do lower into a crouch, retrieving the folded-up square. Eyes on him, I unfold it, only glancing down when the paper’s fully spread.

It’s a list of four names.

“Here.” Papa tosses something else at me, and I scramble to catch it in time before the gold-encased pen lands on the ground. It’s engraved with his name, and I recognize it to be one of many he carries around. “So you can cross off the names as you go.”

“What are you playing at?” Why, after everything, would he help by handing over the names of the men he hired?

Papa’s lips curl up at the edges in a malicious grin.

“I want my son back. I want an heir worthy of the Bratva. A soldier to be proud of. I’m not interested in watching you chase your tail to figure out who they are when your energy could be so much better spent on killing them.

I told you why I did what I did, and you responded exactly as I expected you to.

With passion. Determination.” He flicks his chin towards the paper in my hand. “Make me proud, Dimitri.”

Then he presses the button on his door, replacing the black-tinted window between us, and the car begins its slow drive away.

I watch until it disappears over the slight bend in the road and turns from sight before skimming over the four names he’d written.

Artur Blok.

Danil Andronikov.

Georgiy Yolkiv.

Maxim Klimtsov.

With the fancy, gold pen Papa cherishes, I scribble one more name beneath the fourth, vowing to make that death the most painful.

Ivan Volkov.