Page 24 of Hunt Me (Dmitriyev Bratva #1)

B ristol

I’d accepted that it was quite possible life as I knew it had suddenly been shattered. Forever.

A murder.

Blood on my hands and clothes.

Fear running through my veins.

Was there a chance I was overreacting? Absolutely, yet I’d been a huge proponent of following my instincts and right now they were screaming I’d just escaped a lion’s den.

And that I should keep running.

Russians.

The dead man had spoken Russian. I was clueless about the language of the two men I’d heard coming from another room.

My lack of knowledge and the fact I’d slept with a powerful Russian, who just happened to be the leader of a powerful crime syndicate, scared the shit out of me. When I calmed down, I needed to discover what I was dealing with.

Think. Think this through.

Things weren’t always as they seemed. Right?

There was a huge Russian population in Las Vegas.

Las Vegas was a melting pot of people from several countries who came here to retire or to seek additional wealth.

Yet what were the odds I’d gone to a Russian wedding and then this happened in the space of two days?

Since I lived my life in black and white, the term coincidence wasn’t a part of my vocabulary.

With my father’s warning added as a cherry on the poisonous cake, one thing was clear. I’d stepped into quicksand.

Sadly, running wasn’t possible. Where could I run to where I’d be safe?

I raced up the stairs toward my apartment, constantly throwing my head over my shoulder.

There were no boogeymen in the shadows, no one following me.

At least I prayed to God I’d managed to slip away.

Maybe I’d been imagining whoever had been in the kitchen had bolted out the front door searching for whoever had destroyed their crime scene.

However, I’d taken no chance.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

Oh. My. God.

I flew into the apartment, slamming and locking the doors. Close to hyperventilating, I backed away, tossing my purse to the floor and holding my arms as I stared at the doorway, half expecting to see some burly goons bursting in.

While I didn’t think I’d been followed, I wasn’t taking any chances. I’d taken a different route home, driving through downtown Las Vegas for thirty minutes before finally making my way back to my apartment. Exhaling, I briefly closed my eyes as I tried to determine what to do.

As an upstanding citizen, I’d called the police and let them know a crime…

a murder had been committed. As soon as the operator had pressed me for my name and had attempted to get me to stay on the line, I’d hung up.

Maybe that had been the wrong thing to do, but I knew how things worked within the law.

I’d spent my entire college career studying various cases and case law.

My name would eventually get out to the public. Then I’d be screwed.

Especially since I was the mayor’s daughter. Talk about putting my father’s aspirations at risk. This would be the perfect way to begin his commission. Nervous laughter almost bubbled to the surface.

I turned around, fighting the panic and noticing the blinds were open. I rushed forward, shutting the ones in the living room before heading into both bedrooms and the kitchen, closing one after another. That didn’t mean I’d be safe.

I’d thought about going to my parents, but my father would make a big deal out of the situation, taking me to the police. No. That couldn’t happen. At least not until I’d thought this through. I had no idea who the guy who’d been murdered was, but my instincts told me he was someone of notoriety.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe I was crazy.

Could Mikhail help?

What was I thinking? I wasn’t. That was for certain. With what my father had told me about the family, even if only half was true, seeking his help could mean I’d be indebted to him for life.

I walked into the kitchen, my stomach in knots. Was it possible a drink would calm me down? Was there anything in this world other than a time machine capable of creating a warm, safe cocoon? I blew out hot air as I opened a cabinet door. Every inch of me was shaking like a leaf.

The glass slipped from my fingers, smashing into a dozen or more pieces in the sink. I slammed my hands on the edge, gasping for air until I choked. This couldn’t be real. I hadn’t just thrown my entire life down the toilet after doing something so utterly, insanely reckless.

Even with my eyes cinched closed, stars swarmed my peripheral vision.

Breathe and count. Breathe and count.

The mantra was repeated a dozen times before I was finally able to slow my thudding heart.

I licked my dry lips, lifting my head. Steadying my hand, I grabbed another glass.

Every move was perfunctory as I turned to the other bank of cabinets, finding the bottle of whiskey Callie had purchased for her boyfriend.

She’d been humiliated when he’d told her it wasn’t his brand.

At least the expensive liquor wouldn’t go to waste.

After pouring a glass, I left the bottle on the counter and returned to the living room. No longer able to feel my legs, I sat down. My hold on the glass was a death grip. I still had no clue what I should do or if I could open the can of worms.

Breathing out, I reached for the television remote, flicking onto a local channel. Maybe there was something in the news about the crime that could guide me somehow.

If that was even possible.

“In breaking news, the body of Sergio Pavel, a security consultant for Dmitriyev Enterprises was found murdered in his home in Southern Highlands earlier this evening.”

My head jerked up as soon as I heard the reporter’s voice. Leaning forward, I held my breath as the man on the screen continued with his report. No. No, this wasn’t possible. Dmitriyev Enterprises?

I pressed my fingers across my lips. What in God’s name had I stumbled onto?

“While details are sketchy about the brutal slaying, the police yet to provide any information, what we do know is that Mr. Pavel’s position within the billion-dollar firm is likely a cover-up for his involvement in syndicate activities.”

What? Oh, my fucking God. I leaned forward even more. Even the reporter was insinuating what my father had warned me about.

“There has been speculation for years the Dmitriyev family is considered one of the most powerful and dangerous Russian Bratva within the United States. While never charged with a crime, they’ve been linked to several high-profile killings over the years including the massacre at a public amusement park almost twenty-two years ago. ”

Bratva.

I closed my eyes briefly, envisioning Mikhail’s face. Okay. They’d legitimized over the years. Even my father had suggested they were above board. To a point. Besides, reporters loved to sensationalize for profit and ratings.

What else?

Grabbing the remote, I turned up the volume.

“The family also owns a significant share of resorts, casinos, and entertainment facilities within Vegas. There are also unsubstantiated reports of at least partial ownership of our newly crowned sports stadium as well as significant shares in a Los Angeles-based movie production company. It’s unclear whether Mr. Pavel’s murder was related to any syndicate activities, but reports of a possible witness are circulating. ”

A cold chill trickled down my spine.

Someone had seen me.

Or…

The tip was supposed to be anonymous. I looked away briefly. So much for my possible anonymity. Thank God, I’d hung up before they’d traced the call.

Witness.

Mikhail would soon learn the scrap of information as well. So would his brothers and father. And everyone else in… the Bratva. Oh, this was so bad. So very bad.

I managed to slide the glass onto the table without dropping the heavy crystal. I dumped my head into my hands, rocking as the nightmare continued playing out in the darkest reaches of my mind.

This wasn’t just a horrific situation. This was devastating. Had Callie known the man who’d been her regular was some mob gangster?

Correction. He had been.

Now he was dead.

What had he said to me? Why a brat?

No, I doubted Callie knew anything about the man other than that he was a decent tipper. My sister was like a sweet butterfly, refusing to believe the worst in people, where I’d seen the most horrible crimes anyone could ever imagine.

A dull ringing echoed in my ears as the reporter droned on.

I wasn’t a fool. I’d studied organized crime in college.

I’d written two white papers on two different mafia families, both receiving modest acclaim.

That’s one reason my father had tasked me to be on his commission.

Sadly, he hadn’t understood that I’d simply been interested in the dark and depraved acts in relation to how the media continued to glorify the men involved as if they were sexy heroes.

Not because I’d wanted to spend my life hunting, trapping, exposing, and prosecuting syndicate leaders. And Russian Bratva? They were the most dangerous and vicious savages of all. They were ruthless in every aspect of their business, refusing apologies and excuses.

Forget about betrayal. Fingers and legs were removed for the slightest infraction.

The lump in my throat had shifted to a basketball in my stomach. If I told my father, this entire situation could be turned into a circus.

Or a bloodbath.

No, I would quietly let it go. There was no possibility I’d been seen and recognized. I’d worn dark clothing, not on purpose but by sheer luck. My hair had been pulled into a ponytail. I’d wiped the knife clean.

“Ugh.” I’d touched the murder weapon, also not by choice at first, but forensics were much more sophisticated than they were even ten years before. If even a partial print remained on the knife, how could I explain that without the circus forming?

Even though a portion of the pizza had been left on the scene, the scrap of information wouldn’t be released to anyone. Not if they were good at their jobs. That left the tip.

Or a nosy neighbor.