Deadly (Born Bratva Book 5) (26 page)

Oleg

I woke up early this morning, long before anyone else, so I could sort through all the ideas rolling around in my head. That time between the deepest dark of night and the sun coming up is when my ghosts come out to haunt me. The gray skyline seems to beckon them from the dark corners of my mind, compelling me to ponder my sins.

I wonder why I have no remorse or guilt. I always come up with the same conclusion—I was born without the capacity to feel those emotions.

I never feel fear for myself. The only thing I fear is my enemies coming after my Bratva family and my woman. It gnaws at my gut, this threat that hovers over me, threatening to steal away the happiness I’ve found. I know Roksana feels the same sense of foreboding. It’s the elephant in the room.

She knows she has a target on her back. Not only my enemies but the enemies of her father view her as a way to hurt the Pakhan and weaken our Bratva cell. Her mother taught her well though because Kathleen lives under the same threat of violence. I’m sure the heart-to-heart discussions between Kathleen and her only daughter didn’t focus on boys and makeup. Their girl talk was about death and how to elude its grip.

Roksana loves the mayhem and chaos that goes with our lifestyle. This comes as no surprise to me; I’ve always known that females are far more ruthless than men. They have a sixth sense when it comes to survival and a viciousness that goes far deeper than any man’s. That kind of ruthlessness can’t be cultivated; they’re born with it. Any man who believes women are weaker than men sorely underestimates the opposite sex – at their own peril.

Roksana adds a delicious element of viciousness to my innate brutality. Her imagination for devising torture tactics is off the charts. We feed off each other’s bloodlust. Our foes don’t stand a chance against the two of us. Even Glazov knows that when he wants a job done with an exceptionally gruesome flair, we’re the ones to send.

It would be easier to get rid of the gang member and his old lady with a car bomb, but easy isn’t always the way to go. Don’t want to be seen as predictable. In this business, predictability is a one-way ticket to prison. I’d rather be dead than get locked up. In fact, I used to carry a cyanide pill for that purpose and would not have hesitated to use it. Roksana found it and blew a gasket after she flushed it. She threatened to kill me herself if she ever found another one—I believed her and have not carried any suicide options since. Death at the hands of Roksana would be far more unpleasant than a quick, effective form of poison on my tongue. I don’t put anything past her. She can match my crazy any day of the week.

I call down for coffee and jump into the shower; it’s time to get to work. The water washes over me, cleansing the gray ghosts that surround me before the day dawns. I’ve become so accustomed to them greeting me each day that I think I would miss them if they ever decided to not show up.

I’ve come up with a plan for dealing with this job. One that will send a deadly message to our enemies. There are probably easier ways to do it, but I’m not taking the easy way out. What fun would that be?

Roksana

I don’t have to open my eyes to know I’m alone in our bed. Oleg does his best thinking in the early morning hours and I’ll never complain. Getting the job done is more important than waking up with him in my bed. No matter how much I love him I still have my father to contend with, and being on bad terms with him because of a botched job is unacceptable.

Oleg calls us all to the surveillance room, which has become a meeting place of sorts for the four of us and we’re getting to know each other better with each passing day. Hell, before this, I hadn’t seen Dmitriy regularly in a long time. I had gotten used to only seeing him in passing as he strode down the hall on his way to see the Pakhan. Sometimes I’d see him headed to or returning from the gym, but that was it.

I can’t help but wonder if Dmitriy and Anastasia will end up hooking up, but that’s on them. I’m not in the habit of playing matchmaker. Too many problems can arise in this line of work when you fuck your co-workers. Last week’s one-night-stand could easily be your partner for today’s contract hit.
Awkward…

Oleg looks tense, his jaw hewn from granite and his eyes gleaming with the intensity of a man with purpose. I would never want to be on his bad side -- of course, I’ll never tell
him
that, but it’s true. He and my father are the only two men who strike fear in the deepest, darkest corners of my heart.

Most of my father’s bodyguards are all brawn and no brain—that’s not the case with Oleg. He’s fucking brilliant. He’s not a Mensa graduate-from-college-before-you’re-old-enough-to-drive geek like me and my brothers, but he can plan and execute an enemy’s demise with absolute precision – using the most painful technique possible. He’s a true master. It’s one of the reasons I love him.

“I want you and Anastasia working Miguelito. Fuck with his head. Turn what few friends he has left against him. Roksana and I will take care of the woman.” He levels his beautiful, dead, flat eyes at me. “I want this job done. I’ve got a wedding to help plan. Gotta get to the church on time and all that.”

“I want to help plan the nuptials, Roksana!” Anastasia sounds more excited than I am.

“Nuptials? Well, aren’t we fancy-schmancy? You might end up being the only person left to be my bridesmaid. Father has decided that he’s marrying off all of his children together. A triple wedding: me and both my brothers. Leave it to the Pakhan to take it over the top.”

“There’s nothing I’d be more honored to do, just don’t stick me in some ugly-ass bridesmaid dress.”

I swear if I didn’t know better, I’d say Anastasia’s getting a little misty about the whole thing.

“If it was up to me,” I grouse good-naturedly, “I’d be getting married in black but when you’re dealing with two other brides…well, let’s just say this is one time I’ll probably just go with the flow. I’d rather stand up against a barrage of bullets than get in the way of two soon-to-be Bratva brides.”

“That’s probably a wise decision.”

“I can assure you it is.”

“Hey, Dmitriy, I need you to hack into her social media accounts,” Oleg interrupts abruptly.

Dmitriy wheels over to a monitor and begins tapping at the keyboard. “Sure. Which lovely are we stalking? Girl #1 or Girl #2?”

“The one who laid her STD-ridden hands on Oleg,” I snort derisively.

“Ah, the lovely Maricel. No problem, let’s see what we have here.” Dmitriy pops the girl’s profile up and begins going over it with Oleg. “What is it you’re wanting to do?”

“Change her banner.”

“That’s easy enough. What do you have in mind?”

“The Grim Reaper,” Oleg replies as he turns away, taking my arm and leading me toward the door.

As we step into the hall, Dmitriy laughs and expresses what I’m sure are the sentiments of the whole group: “By the time he finishes mind fucking this one, we may not have to kill her—she might just do it herself.”

Oleg

The thing I love about psychologically manipulating a victim is that many times your efforts affect more than just the person you’re targeting. Roksana says all gangsters are superstitious and I tend to agree with her. I’ll take it one step further; I think anybody involved in criminal activity is superstitious. Being superstitious gives people a sense of control. If I don’t walk under the ladder, if I say an extra prayer, if I remember to do everything my false belief requires…I’ll be safe.

I call bullshit.

Although I don’t believe in mystical, irrational, fear-based notions, I do believe in absolute control.

Roksana goes through the items on top of Maricel’s dresser with latex-gloved hands. “I keep thinking about what Dmitriy said. I wonder if she’d kill herself?” she asks, her voice animated.

“What do you mean, after I drive her nuts?”

“Yes. Hmm, check this out. You must be getting to her, this is new.”

I stride over to where she’s standing by the sofa. Directly behind it is a shrine of sorts. I reach down to pick up a statue that’s surrounded by candles and flowers.

“Malverde—the patron saint of drug dealers,” I murmur as I carefully place the statue back where it was. “Every year on May third the residents of Sinaloa, Mexico, gather to celebrate the
good bandit
. Of course the Church doesn’t recognize him but the people build chapels and shrines to him anyway, all along their drug routes in Mexico and along the U.S. border.”

“I guess she decided not to go to the
tienda
to make an offering. She just set up her own shrine right here.”

“Sure did. Must be calling in some extra help from the other side. Well, let’s see how she likes
this
.” I open my black gloved hand to reveal a small Grim Reaper figurine and place it beside the statue of Malverde.

I cross the room and attach Dmitriy’s small camera to a fake plant on a high shelf.

“This time we’ll see the fear in her eyes up close and personal.”

“You are one sick fuck, Oleg.”

“Yes, and I’m all yours.”