Page 2 of Wreaking Havoc (Demon Bound #1)

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Sascha

T here should be a special place in hell for people who called before ten a.m.

Sascha rolled over and groped for his offending phone, horrified to see that not only was it before ten, but it was only seven thirty in the goddamn morning .

Definitely straight to hell.

“Sergei, you son of a bitch,” he grumbled, putting the thing on speaker so he didn’t have to hold it to his face.

“Ivan wants you,” Sergei’s gruff voice told him evenly, unfazed as ever by Sascha’s less-than-enthusiastic greeting.

Of course. What other reason for his brother’s right-hand man to be calling than to do his brother’s bidding? Like it was so hard for Ivan to pick up a phone himself.

Sascha stretched, luxuriating in the delicious ache of his well-used body. All thanks to the dumb hunk of man meat beside him, the one that wasn’t even faintly stirring from the noise of the phone call next to him.

Poor man. Sascha must have tired him out.

He grinned at the thought, even as his tone stayed petulant. “Ivan never needs me, Sergei.”

“He requests your presence, then.”

Ugh. Sascha threw the covers back in one decisive motion, stumbling out of what’s-his-name’s bed. He knew better than to assume a request from Ivan was only that—a request.

“Why?” he asked—well, more whined, really, but Sergei would have to forgive him a little peevishness at this ungodly hour.

“Damned if I know, zaychik.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sascha griped, more out of habit than anything else. “Keeping things close to his chest these days, is he?”

“Maybe he wants you to take a more vested interest in the family business.”

That earned a real laugh from Sascha, one that finally had his companion rolling over with a grunt. Sascha an active member of the family business? No way in hell. Whether or not he had a head for numbers, he was about as intimidating as a wet kitten, and the thought of a gun in his hand had bile rising in his throat.

Not exactly the makings of a Mafia man, was it?

“Ivan knows better than to depend on another brother,” Sascha pointed out, pulling on the skintight jeans he’d been wearing the night before.

Sergei scoffed. “Not much family left in the family business, then.”

“Sure there is.” Keys. Where were his keys? “What about Cooper? He’s a—what—distant cousin?”

Sergei let out a very Russian-sounding grunt. “I suppose he does his part. Behind those screens of his.”

Poor Sergei. So old-fashioned. The thought of a hacker as part of the team had gotten him all in a tizzy, once upon a time.

Really, Ivan was lucky to have anyone on his side, with what an unbelievably major dick he’d been the last few years. Well, since birth, really, but he’d amped it up lately, even for him.

Sascha supposed betrayal did that to a man. Not that dear middle child Alexei had seen his actions as a betrayal—survival, more like.

Never mind that he’d left his little brother here all alone to deal with their oldest brother’s hissy fits.

“When should I tell Ivan to expect you?” Sergei asked, the faintest hint of impatience finally creeping into his voice.

“Give me an hour,” Sascha told him, slipping out the door. “I’m not decent.”

He’d need to find a cab too. He’d dismissed his driver the night before, not wanting to get an earful from Ivan about his extracurricular activities. It wasn’t exactly a secret that the guy reported all Sascha’s movements to his brother. And while Ivan wasn’t against those activities, exactly—not in the way their father had been—he didn’t appreciate Sascha “flaunting” them.

Sometimes Sascha thought Ivan wouldn’t have minded so much if Sascha had been some uber-masculine top. It seemed to be the lack of machismo of it all that fucked with these old gangsters’ heads more than anything.

Poor Ivan. Papa had messed him up good, hadn’t he?

Sascha ended the call over Sergei’s exasperated spluttering. Really, Sergei should be grateful. Nighttime activities aside, Ivan would blow a gasket if Sascha came in wearing what he was. While he may technically have been following the unspoken approved list—jeans and a black shirt, no color, no frills—neither item left much to the imagination. And Sascha was in no mood for a lecture.

His brother would simply have to wait.

And if Sergei got punished for it…

Well, that was the price of working for a mobster, wasn’t it? He’d chosen his path, after all.

Sascha had never had that luxury.

One would think, after paying five figures for a suit, said suit would be, at the very least, not only exquisite to look at, but comfortable .

But no. The damn thing itched and tugged and constricted like any other of its cheaper brethren. Suits were a fucking scam was what they were. Designed to keep men on edge so they didn’t miss any important nuances of their busy business dealings or whatever.

Which was why it was so utterly fucking pointless for Sascha to be wearing one, wasn’t it? He had no business dealings to speak of, and being on edge only made his stomach hurt.

But Ivan insisted, like their almighty father had before him, and so here Sascha was, in yet another overpriced, uncomfortable suit, miserable and pissy.

Not that anyone would know , he thought, breezing through the glass doors of Ivan’s office building with a smile plastered on his face, nodding amiably to the guard who scanned his key card. Sascha was pampered, rich, and carefree, without having to work a day in his life for it, as Ivan loved to remind him. It was only in the privacy of his own home that he was allowed to be sulky or demanding.

Or the privacy of Ivan’s office, as was often the case.

Ivan’s office that had been relocated from the shabby warehouse to this sleek monstrosity the second their father had croaked. Ivan had said he was dragging their family business into the modern era, but Sascha knew what he was really doing: putting his power on display. Poor brute couldn’t resist.

Still, there were perks. It was close to more than a few designer shops, for one. And it didn’t smell like black mold, for another.

But there were other places Sascha would rather be this fine sunny morning. Like the bed of his current dalliance, for example—the one he’d been so unceremoniously dragged out of. Sascha didn’t do morning cuddles, not with any of his disposable men, but he wouldn’t have minded another round. The man was hung like a horse, for all that his head seemed to contain more skull than brain matter.

Sascha pressed the button for the elevator just as his phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket.

Where the fuck are you?

God, Ivan really had been on a tear since Alexei had run off, never mind that it had been almost two years since their brother had fled.

Ivan hadn’t even summoned Sascha himself, and yet here he was pestering him like he was late when it had barely been forty-five minutes. If he expected Sascha to arrive dressed appropriately, then he had to wait for the results, didn’t he?

Keep your boxer briefs on, brother dearest , Sascha texted back, just as the elevator arrived.

Oh, that would piss him off. But it wasn’t like he’d actually hurt Sascha. And Sascha was maybe the only man in all of New York who could say that.

His allowance, however, was another matter.

Shit. Was it too late to take that text back?

Sascha nodded distractedly to the other elevator occupant—some middle-aged man in a workman’s uniform—as he considered whether to apologize over text or wait until he was facing him in person.

“Floor?”

“Oh!” Sascha startled at the gruff voice, then cleared his throat, trying to cover up his less-than-suave reaction. Ivan was probably monitoring the security camera like a creep, and he was sure to call Sascha out on his lack of composure later. “Um, fifteen, please.”

The man pressed the button for the fifteenth floor. No other buttons were lit up. Huh. Maybe Ivan was installing new security cameras in his office as well, assuaging some of that rampant paranoia of his.

Sascha’s stomach dipped as the elevator rose. He was regretting his text, and it was giving him a tummy ache. He hated that. And his goddam shoe felt loose, to top it all off.

He glanced down to see his shoelace had come undone. See? Even the expensive shoes that came with the expensive suit were bullshit.

He bent down to tie it, a whoosh of air brushing past his torso as he did so. And then—

Fuck .

A fiery burn erupted out of nowhere in Sascha’s upper arm, leaving him choking on air. He glanced down, already afraid of what he’d find.

There was a handle sticking out of him.

He looked up at the workman, as if another person could help make sense of the situation—the workman who was now gazing at him with an intensity that no ordinary person should be looking at him with.

Something clicked in Sascha’s brain. “Did you just stab me?”

He might have been embarrassed at his pouty tone at any other time, but his arm hurt , goddamn it.

“Not where I intended,” the man muttered. Then he pressed a palm into the handle sticking out of Sascha’s limb, raising his voice to be heard over Sascha’s scream. “We have a message for your brother.”

Sascha’s scream trailed off into a whimper, his gaze drawn to his arm again. The stupid suit was darkening around the knife in a telltale pattern.

Oh God, that was blood, wasn’t it?

His vision started growing mercifully fuzzy at the edges. “Well, you picked the wrong way to go about it,” he sniped, his words already slurring. His head was beginning to feel too heavy to hold up. “You should know I faint at the sight of—”

And then everything went dark.