Page 6 of Sexting My Bratva Boss

Anger boils through me. Flexing my clenched fist, I try to fight the urge to walk out onto the floor again, tower over her, and demand to know who’s controlling her.

Because she’smine.Mine to control. And I’ll kill any man who makes her feel threatened.

Lev doesn’t look convinced. There are only a handful of times in my life I’ve felt the need to explain myself. With my position and power, explanations would be seen as a weakness; as the need to justify my actions.

I’m not that kind of man.

I do what I want,takewhat I want, and leave others to deal with the fallout.

But Lev has a way of making me think out loud. And I know he’d never say a word to anyone about my musings, so I lean back and expound.

“I’ll get the truth out of her and punish her for taking what’s mine. And then I’ll hunt down whoever put her up to it and destroy them.”

Lev slips his phone out of his pocket, deftly typing up a succinct request: access to her employee information, questions about how many men I want on her place, and what to do if someone shows up.

I make it clear that I want blood, but that ultimately, I want the kill.

And that they should do anything in their power to protect her.

Then I try to turn my attention back to the matter at hand: running my empire.

The one I worked so hard for.

The one I intend to keep.

The townhouse is five floors, with a bar on the roof and a pool on the lower level. Every inch of it screams luxury, and every inch has been tailored to my needs.

Somehow, it isn’t satisfying me tonight.

I pace the third floor and look out across the river. It’s dark, city lights shimmering on the surface.

I’ve put countless bodies in that water.

I’ll put thousands more in before I’m done.

And yet… it all feels purposeless.

With a low growl, I slide the glass of kvass across the table and stalk out of the room.

The drink is cheap; sweet and sour, with a heady scent that reminds me of bread. Specifically, of the breadbox in my mother’s home, the one painted with little red flowers. I close my eyes and I’m there again: Russia thirty years ago, stomach growling as I tuck myself into the corner of the kitchen and hope there’s food for the night.

The memory drives me to my own kitchen. It takes up half of the first floor, industrial-style prep tables and high-end appliances gleaming black and steel. A wall of knives, more thanmy personal chef will ever need, and a refrigerator that’s as big as a restaurant’s walk-in.

I’ll never go hungry here.

I’ve made sure of that.

“So why isn’t this enough?” I hiss, gripping the cold steel table and feeling the pulsing echo of the hole in my chest.

Thirty years.

Thirty years ago, I climbed out of that hell-hole. Thirty years ago, I promised my mother I’d come back for her, that I’d make her life better.

And I did.

But she sent me away; didn’t want me. Even after I moved her and hersvoloch'second husband to a real home, a two-story in the city center with heat and water and groceries delivered once a week.

Even then she didn’t want me.