Page 70 of Toxic Temptation (Krayev Bratva #1)

KOVAN

“Bro,” Osip mumbles, “I don’t like that look in your eye.”

I grip the steering wheel harder and take the corner fast enough to send both him and Pavel sliding across the backseat. A flock of pigeons scatters from the street, wings beating frantically against the windshield before they disappear.

“Jesus Christ, Ko!” Osip braces himself against the dashboard. “Are you Speed fuckin’ Racer now? Where the hell are we even going?”

I don’t answer. Can’t answer. The rage building in my chest makes it hard to form words that aren’t threats.

Pavel leans forward, studying the industrial buildings we’re passing with dawning recognition. “Wait. Are you taking us to…? No, don’t tell me we’re actually… Kovan…”

Osip snaps, “I hate it when you do that. Don’t start sentences that you don’t intend to finish. Where is he taking us?”

Pavel’s answer is grim. “Clinic 120.”

Osip’s voice climbs an octave. “Clinic 120? Why would we be going to—” He stops mid-thought, his face going pale. “Oh, fuck.”

I spent three hours this morning going through every file related to our organ trafficking operation. That entailed combing over hundreds of spreadsheets and invoices and shipping manifests, all of which should have added up to a clean exit from the business.

It did not.

Instead of severed ties, I found holes. So many fucking holes. Names without organs attached. Organs without names. Money moving in directions it shouldn’t be moving.

Someone is messing with the system.

Someone is undermining my orders.

Someone’s been playing games behind my back.

I explain this all to them tersely. But even when I’m done, they both look wary.

“It could be anyone,” Osip suggests carefully. “Half the brotherhood thinks you’re making a mistake shutting down the organ trade. Lotta malcontents out there.”

“None of them would act alone.” I mash on the brakes at a red light hard enough to make the tires squeal. “They’d need leadership. Protection.”

Pavel’s reflection catches my eye in the rearview mirror. His jaw is set, his knuckles white where they cling to the seat. “They’d need Ihor.”

I nod. Same conclusion I came to at my desk this morning. “Has to be.”

“If he’s moving against you openly…” Pavel trails off, but I know what he’s thinking.

“Then we’re talking about civil war.” I finish the sentence for him. “Yeah. I know.”

The light turns green. I floor the accelerator, and we rocket toward the massive white building that houses Dr. Benjamin Lambert’s private clinic. From the street, it looks pristine. Professional. It’s the kind of place you’d trust with your life.

Which makes what happens inside all the more obscene.

I park directly in front of a No Parking sign and kill the engine. The silence that follows feels loaded. Gunpowder waiting for a lit match.

I step out of the car and shut my door hard enough to rattle the windows. The woman behind the reception desk looks up as we enter, her leopard-print glasses sliding down her nose. “Excuse me, sir, you can’t park?—”

“I need to see Dr. Lambert. Now.”

She scrambles to her feet, her chair spinning behind her. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Lambert is unavailable?—”

“His Aston Martin is parked in the medical director’s spot outside.” I step closer to the desk. “Try again.”

Her hand twitches toward what I’m guessing is a panic button. Crafty girl. Too bad it won’t help her. “He’s in a meeting. A very important?—”

I pull my Glock and point it at her forehead. She goes statue-still, the color draining from her face so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t faint.

“Let me rephrase,” I say. “I need to see Dr. Lambert.” I flick off the safety with an audible click . “Right. Fucking. Now.”

“Y-yes, of course,” she stutters. “Let me show you to his office.”

“Perfect,” I say, holstering my weapon. “I knew I could count on you.”

She leads us through a maze of corridors lined with unmarked doors. Some have windows. Some don’t.

I don’t like to think too hard about what happens behind the ones that don’t.

The hallway seems to stretch forever, sterile white walls closing in around us. The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils, mixing with something else. Something metallic.

Blood.

“What’s the game plan?” Pavel asks under his breath.

“I find out who’s been fucking with my operation. Then I make sure it never happens again.”

The receptionist stops at a door at the end and knocks. I push past her before she can announce us and shove it open.

Dr. Benjamin Lambert looks exactly like what he is: a small, miserable man cosplaying as an important one.

He’s five-foot-six on a good day, with beady eyes set too close together and the kind of wispy, carefully maintained beard that screams of overcompensation.

Rolex watch, Burberry suit, Hermès tie, Loro Piana shoes?—

All paid for with stolen organs.

“Mr. Krayev!” He forces a disturbed smile. “What a pleasant?—”

I punch him in the face.

The satisfying crunch of cartilage breaking fills the room. Lambert crashes backward into his desk, papers scattering. Blood streams from his nose, staining his expensive shirt.

“Jesus Christ, Kovan.” Osip takes a step forward, then stops. Even he knows better than to interfere when I’m like this.

“What the fuck?!” Lambert presses his hand to his nose, coming away with crimson fingers. “You broke it!”

“I’ll break a lot more if you don’t start talking.” I grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall. His feet start pedaling in the air. “Pull up our files. Now.”

“You already have?—”

“You know, that’s what I thought, too.” I squeeze harder, enjoying the sight of his face turning tomato red. “Except my files have holes in them. Big ones.”

“There are no holes—please— I can’t breathe?—”

For the time being, he’s of more use to me alive than dead. That’s the only reason I release him.

He gasps as he collapses to his knees, sucking air like a drowning man, and whimpers as he rubs at the red marks left by my hands.

I nudge him with the tip of my shoe. “Try again, motherfucker. I’m not in the mood for games.”

“I swear, you already have everything?—”

I walk to the medical supply cabinet in the corner and rip the door open. Inside, surgical instruments gleam under the fluorescent lights. I select a scalpel and turn it over in my hand, testing the weight.

“Maybe my fist wasn’t persuasive enough,” I muse. “Maybe this will be more effective.”

Lambert tries to run. Osip catches him before he makes it three steps, wrapping him up and slamming him back onto the desk.

“Hold him down,” I order.

Pavel grabs Lambert’s left arm. Osip takes the right. They press him face-first against the wooden surface while I approach with the scalpel.

“How deep do you think I can cut before I hit bone?” I trace the flat of the blade along his cheek without breaking skin. “Give me your professional opinion, Doctor.”

“Please, please, please?—”

I rotate the knife and apply the tiniest bit of pressure. A thin line of red blood appears beneath the blade, all the more colorful because of how pale and clammy his skin is. Lambert screams high and shrill, the sound bouncing off the walls.

“Pathetic.” I raise the scalpel and examine the bead of blood on its edge. “Really, Doctor. Grow some balls.”

“Okay!” It comes out as a terrified sob. “Okay, I’ll talk!”

“Smart man.” I set the scalpel aside and haul him upright. “Those degrees weren’t for nothing after all.”

He leans on the edge of the desk, legs dangling, head slung low on his chest. Blood still trickles from his nose and cheek.

“I don’t know many details,” he stammers. “J-just… whispers. Messages.”

“What kind of messages?”

“Encrypted emails. They started coming a few weeks ago.” He touches his cheek gingerly. “Someone saying a section of your organization would continue operating in the organ market. That you were still doing business under the radar.”

My blood goes cold. “Who sent them?”

“I don’t know! I swear, I don’t know.” He raises his hands palms up. “I thought they were from you!”

“If they were from me, my name would be on them, you fucking moron.” I step closer, close enough to smell his fear. “I don’t do business in the shadows.”

“I didn’t know that. I just… I do what I’m told, okay? I just always do what I’m told.”

“Do what you’re told?” I laugh in his face. It’s not a pleasant sound. “Nobody’s forcing you to steal organs, Lambert. Nobody’s making you violate your oath for money. You do this for your own good. Don’t pretend you’re a fucking victim.”

He can only shake his head mechanically from side to side. “We all do what we have to do to survive.”

I snatch up his wrist and shake it in front of him. “This Rolex doesn’t seem like mere ‘survival’ to me, Doctor. It seems like greed . It seems like you like stepping on corpses to get the shiny shit you want.”

His chin juts out defiantly. “And your watch doesn’t say the same?”

Pavel takes a step forward, but I stop him with a raised hand.

“You’re right,” I tell Lambert. “I turned a blind eye to this operation for too long. I’m complicit in every death, every stolen organ, every family destroyed. But now, I’m going to shut it all down. Along with everyone who profits from human misery.”

“Please, Mr. Krayev, I’m sorry?—”

“Stop groveling. It’s embarrassing.” I step away and turn my back on him. I’m sick of looking at his sniveling fucking face. “As of right now, you work for me. Directly. No intermediaries.”

He gulps. “What do you want me to do?”

“Not a fucking thing different.” I turn around again so he can see just how serious I am.

“You will continue doing exactly what you’ve been doing.

Answer the emails. Keep the operation running.

” I lean against the far wall, crossing my arms. “But every message gets forwarded to me. Every transaction. Every piece of communication. If you withhold so much as a single fucking comma, I’ll know, and I’ll carve the shape of it out of you myself. ”

He’s somehow even paler than he was when I first burst in here. “What should I tell them?”

“Whatever you normally would. Right now, we maintain the status quo.” I push off from the wall and get in his face one more time. “But listen to me, Benjamin… If you try to play me, if you even think about crossing me, I’ll make what happened here today look like a love tap. Are we clear?”

“Y-yes. Yes, sir, I mean.”

“Good.”

We’re done here. I turn and head for the door. Pavel and Osip fall into step behind me.

We don’t speak until we’re outside, the sunlight blistering in our faces after the nauseating artificial lighting of the clinic.

“Christ,” Osip mutters, fishing for his cigarettes. “You were making French toast this morning. You were smiling. You were humming. And now… Now, you’re… this. ”

He’s right. Four hours ago, I was standing in my kitchen, flipping bread while Vesper sat at the counter reading her patient case files. Luka was building something with Legos at the table, occasionally looking up to ask when we could go see the dinosaur exhibit again.

I was happy. Content in a way I’d never experienced before.

It’s funny, though, in a dark and twisted sort of way: Once upon a time, I thought that shit would make me vulnerable. I figured that having people to care about would weaken me, give my enemies leverage. That’s why I always avoided it.

I was wrong. It doesn’t make me weak.

It makes me fucking lethal .

Because now, I have something worth fighting for. Something worth killing for.

And anyone who threatens that is going to learn exactly how dangerous a man in love can be.