Page 65 of Toxic Salvation (Krayev Bratva #2)

VESPER

I promised Kovan just this morning that I wouldn’t do anything reckless. I told him I’d keep a low profile and do my job. I swore to him I would absolutely not, under any circumstances, ditch my guards.

Now, here I am, breaking every single promise I made.

But there’s no guilt clawing at me. Guilt is for people who regret their choices. Guilt is for people doing something wrong.

I don’t regret this. And I’m certainly not wrong.

Not when that psychopath has my son.

Standing outside my old apartment building feels like stepping into someone else’s life. The person who lived here was smaller somehow. Quieter. She accepted whatever scraps the world threw her way and called it enough.

That woman is dead.

I killed her the day I decided to fight for my family.

I left my phone in the car I stole to get here—a black Honda Civic that some poor college student is probably reporting missing right about now. Auto theft—I can add that to my growing list of crimes.

Kovan would be proud of how thoroughly I’ve embraced this Bratva lifestyle. If I survive today, I’m demanding full membership in the brotherhood. After that impressive bit of carjacking, I’ve earned it.

The building’s hallway smells like disinfectant and other people’s cooking. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. I take the stairs two at a time, my medical bag clutched against my chest like battle armor.

Of course, the door to apartment 4B stands wide open.

I pause at the threshold, expecting to be ambushed the moment I step inside. But nothing happens. No one shows up. Nothing but cold air drifts out to meet me.

Cautiously, I step inside. The apartment feels hollow, abandoned. Like a stage set waiting for actors to bring it to life.

And then… showtime.

A tall figure blocks the doorway behind me.

“Hello, Vesper. Nice to see you again.”

I spin around and bite back my scream.

Ihor Makhova looks remarkably put-together in his dark blue suit. But expensive clothes can’t hide the fact that he’s lost significant weight since our last encounter. His cheekbones jut out sharply, making his dark eyes appear sunken. Hollow. Like he’s already halfway to being a corpse.

“Where’s Luka?” I demand.

A muffled yell echoes from the bedroom.

My entire body jerks toward the sound before Ihor’s palm slams against my sternum, stopping me cold.

“Not so fast. You and I need to have a conversation first.”

“Please. I need to see my son.”

“ Your son?”

That familiar, nasally, nails-on-a-chalkboard whine comes from inside the bedroom before she emerges like a spider crawling out of its web. Yana steps into the living room behind Ihor, her lips twisted into a sneer I’d love to slap off her face.

“He’s not yours,” she spits. “He never was.”

I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that.”

Yana lunges forward, but Ihor catches her around the waist before she can reach me and hurls her backward. Her spine connects with the wall hard enough to rattle the windows, but she barely seems to notice the impact.

“The bitch is mine!” she shrieks at him, spittle flying from her mouth. “She’s taken everything from me!”

“We’re handling this my way, Yana,” intones Ihor.

She glares at him. “She’s useless to us. We don’t need her, baby. Let me kill her so we can be done with this.”

Ihor approaches her with deliberate slowness. For a moment, his movements seem almost tender—his hand rising toward her face like he might stroke her cheek or tuck her hair behind her ear.

Then his fingers wrap around her throat and he pins her back against the wall.

“You will follow orders, you useless bitch. I am your master, and you will do as I say. Is that understood?”

Yana’s eyes bulge as she claws at his wrist. Her perfectly manicured nails leave angry red scratches on his skin. Despite everything she’s done—to Luka, to Kovan, to me—watching someone choke her triggers an instinctive wave of sympathy.

“Stop! Let her go!”

With a surprised glance in my direction, Ihor releases his grip. Yana collapses against the wall. She slides down it to a seat on the floor, sucking in desperate gulps of air.

“I d-don’t need you to f-fight my battles for me, bitch,” she gasps between ragged breaths.

“Fine,” I answer. “Next time, I’ll just let him kill you.”

Ihor turns back to me and straightens his suit jacket like nothing happened. “Luka belongs to us now. If you want him kept safe and treated well, I suggest you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

Yana’s gaze never leaves my face. Despite backing down, she hasn’t abandoned her murder plans. I can see it written in her expression—she’s just waiting for the right moment to finish what she started.

I turn my eyes to Ihor. “I’m here, aren’t I? I followed your instructions exactly.”

He arches a brow. “So Kovan doesn’t know where you are?”

“No one does. I ditched my guards like you demanded, stole a car, and drove here alone. My phone is turned off and sitting in the passenger seat where you told me to leave it.”

Ihor nods approvingly. “Impressive. I can see why Kovan fell for you.”

Yana lets out a derisive snort.

“Thanks to you,” Ihor continues, circling me, “I’ve lost everything. My business, my men, my income. Everything I worked for decades to build is gone.”

I stand my ground. “Kovan was planning to end the organ ring long before I appeared.”

“Keep telling yourself that, stupid little girl.” His laugh makes my skin crawl. “You think you changed him? You think your pussy has some magical power that transformed a killer into a saint?”

I refuse to take the bait. “I want to see Luka. Now.”

“You will see Luka—as long as you agree to follow my rules.”

“Which are?”

“Listen to me. Obey me. Be compliant at all times.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“Then they should be easy to remember.” He smiles with thin, chapped lips. “Tonight, you’ll board a plane. False documents are already prepared. Once you land—far, far away from here—you’ll be taken to a house where you’ll live for the foreseeable future.”

Terror grips my chest. “And Luka?”

“If you behave and follow instructions, Luka will join you in a month.”

“What?” Yana spins to face him, her voice climbing to a harpy’s wail. “You’re sending my son to her?”

“She needs motivation to cooperate, Yana. Luka provides that motivation.”

“Fuck that! He is my son, and she doesn’t get anywhere near him!”

“You have no interest in the boy.”

“That’s not the point!” Yana’s eyes blaze with fury. “You’re shortsighted and stupid! You think that bitch is your meal ticket? You think she can save you?”

“Kovan will do anything for her,” he explains through clenched teeth. “Including handing over the Bratva, the organ operation, and anything else I demand.”

My heart pounds so hard I wonder if Luka can hear it through the wall. Maybe I can slip past them while they’re arguing. They’re so focused on their power struggle they might not notice?—

“Idiot!” Yana screams, throwing her hands up. “Don’t you get it? He thinks he loves her now, but out of sight, out of mind. Once she’s gone, he’ll just replace her with another whore! And now that he has a son of his own, why should he care about Luka?”

“You don’t know Kovan like I do. He cares for the boy. He cares for her, too.”

Yana snorts. “He’s a man. They’re not capable of loyalty.”

“Vitalii was.” Ihor’s voice turns venomous. “He remained faithful to you the entire time you were fucking me. So whipped that, even after he knew you were cheating, he chose to believe Luka was his child.”

The revelation stops me cold. Is Luka listening to this? Can he hear them destroying what’s left of his understanding of his parentage?

I edge toward the bedroom door, but Ihor’s attention snaps to me immediately.

“You want to see Luka that badly?” His smile turns vicious. “Come on, then.”

He grabs my arm and drags me into the bedroom. The sight that greets me makes my stomach plummet.

“Luka!”

My boy is tied to the bedframe with fraying rope on each wrist. His cheek is bright red—someone slapped him hard enough to leave a handprint. Tears streak down his face, but otherwise, he appears unharmed.

I rush to him and he cries out, “Mom!”

“She is not your fucking mother!” Yana follows us into the room. “Do you hear me, boy? She is nothing to you but your uncle’s slut!”

I spin around, placing myself between her and Luka. “I am the wife of the pakhan . Just like you were. Except my husband is still alive, and he’s coming for you.”

Before Ihor can stop her, Yana pulls a switchblade from inside her boot and charges.

“No!” Luka screams.

Yana lunges at me with the knife. Moving on pure instinct, I dive to the right, and the blade embeds itself in the wooden headboard with a solid thunk.

“I’m going to kill you, you bitch!” Yana yanks the knife free. Wood chips go flying. “And when I’m done with you, I’m going to gut that little runt you popped out. Then there’ll be no dispute about who inherits the Krayev Bratva.”

“Stop it!” Luka’s voice cracks with terror.

With the back of her hand, Yana strikes him across the face. “You stupid child! Don’t you see I’m fighting for your birthright?”

“The only thing you’re fighting for is yourself.” I keep my body between her and Luka. “This has nothing to do with him. And fair warning: the next time you touch him, I will end you, you toxic cunt.”

Probably not the smartest thing to say to a woman holding a knife and clearly unhinged enough to use it.

But there’s only so much a person can take.

“What are you going to do?” Yana cackles, raising the blade again. “Even if you had a weapon, you don’t have the balls to?—”

“Argh!”

“Luka!”

My boy somehow wriggles free of one of his restraints and launches himself at Yana’s back, his small fist pummeling her shoulders. The impact knocks the knife from her grip, and it skitters across the hardwood floor.

“Get off!” Yana screams as she bucks like a wild horse. “Get the fuck off me!”

But Luka wraps his legs around her waist and claws at her face with desperate fury. In the struggle, the remaining rope around his other wrist snaps, fully freeing him from the bedpost.

“Enough!” Ihor bellows.

He steps forward and effortlessly plucks Luka from Yana’s back. Then, with casual brutality, he hurls my nine-year-old son onto the bed.

“That is enough!” Ihor’s face has gone purple with rage. “Luka, you will listen to your father!”

“You are not my father!” Luka scrambles to his feet on the mattress, standing as tall as his small frame allows.

“I have news for you.” Ihor’s sneer devolves into something even crueler. “Your mother was screwing around with me while that idiot she married tried to play pakhan . He never knew, but I am your real father.”

“No!” Luka’s gray eyes burn with defiance. “My parents are Vitalii Krayev, Kovan Krayev, and Vesper Fairfax. They’re the parents I choose.”

If I weren’t terrified for our lives, I’d be crying. This child—my child—has more courage in his small body than most grown men.

“You choose her?” Yana retrieves the knife, her movements erratic with rage. “You want her to be your mother? Then you can watch her die.”

She charges at me again, and this time, I’m not fast enough.

We hit the bed together, her weight driving the air from my lungs. I try to shove her off, but she’s stronger than she looks. Pain explodes along my ribs—either from her knee or the knife, I can’t tell which.

All I know is that I have to fight through it. There’s no way I’m letting Luka watch me die.

I flail my fist upward and connect with her nose. The cartilage crunches under my knuckles and blood spurts down her face. She grunts but doesn’t slow down. If anything, the pain only makes her more vicious.

The knife rises above me, steel blade catching the afternoon light streaming through the window.

Then it stops.

Yana’s eyes go wide with shock as she’s yanked backward with violent force.

I can’t see who my savior is through the chaos. Can’t hear anything over the rush of adrenaline and blood pounding in my ears.

But I know exactly who to thank.

I knew he would come. He promised he would keep me safe.

And Kovan Krayev always keeps his promises.