Page 9 of Scarred Bratva King

My mind goes back to her.

She’s not like me. She doesn’t deserve to have her pristine skin damaged. All I want to do is find the bastard who did it to her and rip his hands off.

Business must come first.

The door creaks open, revealing a middle aged woman with wide, darting eyes. Threadbare sweater, white hair tied back hastily. She reeks of fear.

She tries to hide it, meeting my gaze with a forced calm but her kind of fear always has a smell. It seeps out of the skin like sweat, clings to the air like exhaust fumes in a parking garage.

I offer her a polite smile, leaning slightly on my cane as I adjust my weight. “Good evening,” I say in Russian, my voice smooth. “May I come in, Mrs. Bukowski?”

She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder into the dimly lit house, before stepping aside. “Of course, Mr. Stepanov,” she murmurs. Her voice wavers just enough to amuse me.

“Please, call me Maxim.” I smile warmly. “After you, Mrs. Bukowski.”

I follow her inside, my cane tapping against the wooden floor. I listen for echoes. If there’s a basement, he could be hiding down there. I’m not taking any chances, not after last time.

The house is exactly as I expected: peeling wallpaper, mismatched furniture, the faint smell of sweat lingering in the air.

“It’s warm in here,” I remark, glancing at the small electric heater humming in the corner. “These Moscow winters can be so cruel, can’t they?”

She nods, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “Yes, sir. And the power is so expensive nowadays.” She shrugs. “But then so is everything.”

I turn to face her, letting the silence stretch just a little too long. Then I smile again, soft and disarming. “And how are you?”

Her lips part slightly, like she’s unsure whether the question is rhetorical. “I’m as well as can be expected,” she says at last.

“Good, good,” I say, moving to the small table in the center of the room. I pull out a chair and sit down, gesturing for her to do the same. She hesitates, then complies, her movements stiff and jerky.

“My work,” I begin, resting my cane across my lap, “is all about balance. Loyalty, trust, honesty. These are the currencies of my world.”

I study her closely, watching the way her fingers tremble as they grip the edge of the table. “When someone breaks my trust, it causes ripples that spread far and wide. People whisper that I am a man who can be lied to. Would you say you’re an honest woman?”

Her eyes dart to mine, and for a moment, I see the flicker of panic she’s trying so hard to suppress. “Yes,” she says. “I swear to almighty God above.”

I nod thoughtfully, reaching into the inside pocket of my coat. I pull out a stack of crisp, neatly bound banknotes and place them on the table between us. Her gaze drops to the money, and I catch the way her throat tightens as she swallows.

“For you,” I say softly. “Enough to buy you a wonderful new place, well insulated, modern. Put all this unpleasantness behind you. Retire at last.”

She reaches for it slowly. “All you have to do,” I continue, “is tell me where he is.”

Her head jerks up, her face draining of color as her hand falls limp at her side. “I don’t know who you mean.”

I tilt my head, watching her carefully. “You don’t?” I reach into my pocket again, this time pulling out a photograph. It’s small, glossy, and unmistakable: a fat man with a thin mustache and dark eyes, his name written neatly across the bottom. A Russian name. Arseni Ivanovitch.

I slide the photo across the table to her. “This man,” I say, tapping the picture, “walked onto my boat to discuss business between the Bratva and the Italian mob. This meeting took place far from here, in New York City. During our delicate negotiations, he decided to take a liberty. Shot me twice. Once in the hip.” I tap my cane for emphasis. “And again in the head.”

I lean forward slightly, raising my voice so he’ll be able to hear me. “He got unlucky. The bullet grazed my skull, it didn’t kill me. Do you know what it’s like to wake up from a coma, Mrs. Bukowski? To find out you’ve been asleep for a month because one of your loyal men decided to cheat you? To discover a man you trusted has decided to work with Vito Lombardi?”

Her lips tremble, and she shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him,” she whispers. “I swear.”

I smile faintly. “That’s unfortunate,” I say, sitting back in my chair. “Sources tell me he’s been a regular client with you since he popped back up in Moscow. Brought some blood money to spend and chose whores. Got a thing for older women, they say. You’re certain you haven’t seen him?”

She nods, swallowing hard. “Not for three days. I never knew he cheated you. I’m sorry, Maxim. Please, don’t kill me.”

I sigh. “During the war, when peasants lied so their men would avoid being drafted, the commissars used to burn down their houses with them inside.” I smile. “I do like the old methods.” I pull out a match and light it, letting the flame burn down slowly until it singes my fingers. “Last chance, Mrs. Bukowski.”

Her eyes dart toward the corner of the room—a movement so subtle most people wouldn’t notice. My smile widens.

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