Page 40 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Thirty

ILYA

I rub a hand over my face and play the recording my private investigator gave to me one more time.

Five watches in, and it still makes zero sense.

Or maybe it does.

Maybe it clicks perfectly into place, and I just couldn’t see it before.

I expected Simonov to meet with nobody important and maybe see a glimpse of Santo.

Fuck.

I expected Melor in meetings with our men, maybe with another bratva, because he sensed the ship was sinking and wanted off. And maybe if I’m generous, that’s what I’m seeing.

If I’m generous. But what I’m looking at isn’t an exploration into defection. A discussion with another house. I’ve been in those, with people who realized the smart place to be when Demyan came down on their house for crimes committed against the Yegorov Bratva.

This is two people who know each other .

Two people who are comfortable, who have something in place. A plan. A relationship. I don’t give a fuck which.

There’s no sound, and there doesn’t need to be. The footage says it all. Like a master class in silent film.

Melor and Simonov.

The time stamp tells me it was taken two hours ago. It arrived via email with a load of other things, the PI stating he’s still on the job and will continue if needed.

I sent him a terse: Yes.

Money’s no fucking object.

Because I want them all followed. All of them. Their wives, girlfriends, friends, soldiers. Enemies.

“Get your shit under control,” I say in Russian. “Think.”

The only people I need followed are Simonov and Melor and their most trusted. I don’t even give a flying fuck if my PI has someone here, where I am. Outside Melor’s fucking residence.

I watch one more time, waiting for him. He’s supposed to be on a routine arms deal. Ammo, small-time, but important. When I spoke to him this morning, he told me he’d then do some admin at home, waiting for a call on a payment nearby, and then he’d meet me.

It checked out. I’m not a total fool.

He is scheduled for that, and he does payment collection from home. My grandfather kept meticulous records on his men and their activities.

So, I wait.

And watch the video.

In it, Simonov finishes a meeting with someone I don’t know but recognize. A small-bit Polish crime family leader.

The video goes wobbly, out of focus, before sharply coming back.

Melor arrives. They go into the shuttered strip club. The time stamp jumps an hour, and then Melor comes out, laughing with Simonov. That friendly “I know you well” kind of laugh two people have when there’s a relationship there.

Simonov leans in, says something, and Melor erupts into more laughter. He slaps Simonov’s back. Then the two men shake hands, and Melor leaves.

Nausea roils hard as my throat burns.

Yeah, I could interpret this as Melor going the extra mile, sliding behind enemy lines to set up a sweet double-cross.

And I may just go and buy a bridge for sale in Brooklyn. And a slice of moon cheese.

Because I know what I’m looking at.

And I start to question myself and my instincts.

Have my feelings for Alina thrown me so off balance that I can’t see straight? Or maybe I’m not cut out to lead. I’m better behind the scenes, taking orders, passing them along, and making entirely different kinds of decisions.

Because I might not have known Melor long, but I trusted him.

Trusted .

I thought he was trying to help me, the only friendly face in a sea of hostility, and yet it seems he’s been plotting with the enemy, plotting against me, all this time.

With a sigh, as I wait for Melor to turn up, I call the hospital for updates.

The doctors normally wouldn’t tell me a thing if this were a normal call to a normal private hospital.

But I’m calling the special section where they will tell me or Demyan anything we ask when it comes to people we drop off.

Everyone’s fine. Stable. Some have gone home.

After I hang up, I call Denis on a whim. “This is?—”

“I know who it is, fucker,” he says to me in Russian. “I just got home. I was going to call to say thanks.”

The begrudging note is strong in his voice, but I find it’s the most honest any of these people have been. He doesn’t like me, isn’t sure he should trust me, but I saved him. Plus, he did help me to the point he could have died.

This man I can trust.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fucking Russian. There is nothing vodka can’t fix.” He guffaws. “Someone is telling stories. Find them. End it or you won’t have a bratva. If you do end up the victor, I will be there. On your side.”

He hangs up.

Someone is telling stories.

Fucking Melor.

Who told me it was Denis and the others.

I lean back. I start to call Alina, but stop.

I can’t have distractions. When Svetlana calls, I ignore that, too.

If she needs more supplies, she can take matters into her own hands.

She called the other day, wanting to order in new detergent for the laundry.

I don’t need another of those calls now.

I sit up as a gunmetal SUV arrives on the street opposite. Melor jumps out and lopes up the steps to the front door of his home like he doesn’t have a fucking care.

Not his guesthouse on the estate but a house my PI uncovered.

He fucking goes in like a man with a mission to begin.

Like he’s starting a coup.

I wait until he’s inside.

Then I check my gun, slide another clip into my pocket, and make my way to his place, the video ready to play from my phone in my pocket.

Melor answers after one knock.

I don’t give him a chance to speak. I sucker punch him in the face, making him stumble back.

Before he can do a thing, I pull my gun, kick the door shut, advance on him, grab him by the throat, and hurl him up against the wall.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

The innocence in his expression doesn’t reach the cold malice in his eyes.

“What’s this about?” he manages to rasp out.

I could waste a bullet. I could fucking shoot the asshole dead here and now, but I need and want answers.

And if he’s going to fucking die, his altercation with his god will have to wait until he sets shit straight with my men.

I squeeze harder, and his face turns an ugly color as he struggles.

Disgusted, I slam him into the wall and let him go.

I hold my phone up and press play. “Care to explain?”

He watches it, his expression flickering, and then he laughs.

“You’re in deep with him, yes?” I sneer at him, my throat thick with the urge to jam the gun into his mouth and pull the trigger. “Is this new, or has it been going on since Aleksandr was alive? Because the info on the dispute with Simonov isn’t fake.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a fool. Weak and pathetic.”

“Riling a man with a gun is idiotic,” I say.

Melor smirks. “You were a fucking fool to ever trust me. What, you thought you could just waltz in?”

“There was a will,” I state.

“And you don’t deserve a single thing.”

I nod slowly. “There’s one thing I just can’t figure out. Why do all this? Greed? At first, I thought it was that, but it can’t be. I know how much you make. I’ve been making sure you get more. You’re as high up as you can be, and Simonov isn’t going to treat you as well.”

“You watched the whole video?”

“I watched a fool get played. You can’t possibly believe he won’t turn on you. So why? Why do this?” I study him. “Control?”

“Simonov is a dead man as soon as I get what I need. And control? Nothing so fucking mundane,” he spits. “All I ever wanted was what’s mine.”

“Yours?” I ask. “The bratva?”

I tighten my grip on my gun. I don’t trust this man. At all.

“For years, Aleks dangled the bratva in front of me. He told me he was grooming me for his job. He said if I did the hard work, it would be mine. I did the hard work. Harder. I’ve been baptized in blood, killed those I cared for because he asked. I was loyal.

“You say control like I just want the keys and the driver’s seat. He promised me control of the bratva, to be pakhan. I worked my ass off for Aleks, and I was more family to him than you ever were.

“ We ,” he snarls, “had an arrangement. One as solid as if it were written in blood. In a way, it was. And then you appear from nowhere, his weak slut of a daughter’s bastard son. It’s not fucking fair.”

Something snaps and I press the gun into his forehead, pushing it into his skin. “You do not ever mention my mother again, or you die now. It’s over, Melor. Even Denis is with me.”

“That weak fuck.”

“You either confess to my bratva”—I use the word my deliberately—“that you were behind everything, and then you pack your bags and fuck off out of Chicago so I never see or hear of you again, or I kill you. Right here.” I stare him in the eye. “Right now. Your choice.”

Melor smiles nastily. “If you were to kill me right now, Ilya, none of your men, including Denis, will ever believe you. They trust me. They don’t trust you. If I’m dead, why the fuck would they ever believe I was behind the slaughter of their comrades?”

I smirk and hold up my phone. “See that? It’s a recording app. I hit it after you watched the video. All this has been recorded and sent to the cloud. Smash the phone, and it’ll still exist. Technology is good, da ?”

Fury darkens his face. But then he smiles. “There’s one more thing you haven’t considered. The reason why I met Simonov. We made another deal. Right now, Simonov is holding up his end of the bargain.”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“I mean he should be kidnapping your Alina. Her dead first love is an easy way to get her in, da ? Tell her we have information on his real killer, and poof. She’ll forget you and be ours to do with what we wish. Her death or her life is in your hands. Which it will be is up to you.”

Ice floods me. I don’t believe him. I can’t.

Alina… Shit. Why the fuck did Svetlana call earlier? Over my girl?

Terror grips hard.

I tighten my hold on the gun, my finger hugging the trigger.

“Not so fast, Ilya,” he says softly. “Either you let me go, or you’ll never see Alina again. Life or death, remember? If Simonov doesn’t get a call from me every ten minutes, as in he hears my voice, then she’s dead.”

I glare at him.

My finger on the trigger shakes so much from fighting the urge to pull I move it. I’m ice. Even though I burn deep inside.

I tell myself he could be bluffing, but I don’t care.

This is my love. Alina. I’m not taking the risk.

I call her, but it goes straight to voicemail.

I grab hold of him and march him out of his house and into the trunk of my car. I don’t care if anyone sees. I speed home, blasting through red lights, swerving around other cars.

The gates are open. There’s a guard, slumped dead, in the guardhouse.

Another lying in a pool of blood just inside. Then, a third. That’s all the guards on duty right now.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .

As I pull up, Svetlana runs out. Albert barks and runs around her, nipping at her dress and trying to drag her to me.

He stops then barks as he rushes up to me, his lead trailing.

“Mr. Ilya, please!” Svetlana is beside herself as Albert bites at my trousers. “I don’t know where Miss Alina is. She’s gone!”