Page 131 of Bratva's Vow
“Drugs in their system?”
“Likely. Looks like they were using. Here. Thought you’d want this back.”
Sergei handed me a wallet. Vova’s. I opened it and flipped through the contents. His driver’s license, credit card, and a photo of us taken the same year I first entered the States. My chest tightened.
“Where did you find it?”
“Bedside drawer.” Sergei watched me carefully. “It confirms Malik and Tyers were there. Probably beat him, stole his wallet. Maybe something else went wrong and Vova fought back.”
“So one of them panics.” Nik stepped beside Sergei. “Malik decides to sell the tip to us. Wants the reward. Tyers finds out. Knows they’re burned.”
“Kills him to shut him up,” Sergei said. “Then offs himself before we get to him.”
Darius walked into the room, arms crossed. I hadn’t seen him when we entered. Where had he been? He frowned. Just a twitch of it. But I noticed.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked.
Darius shifted his weight. “It sounds plausible. And that’s the problem. Everything fits too neatly. It feels like a packaged story. One someone wants us to buy.”
I looked back at the blood, the bodies, the pistol. I was thinking the same thing. Too convenient. Too clean for a crime this dirty.
“Take everything,” I ordered. “Phones. Electronics. Anything that can tell us who they were talking to. Who they might’ve been working for. Get both their thumbs in case we need them for access.”
Nik was already bagging the phone. Sergei took photos of the scene, methodical and fast, and Darius got out his knife.
From the bed came a small, muffled sound.
A whimper.
All of us froze.
Another soft whine.
I kneeled, careful not to disturb the bloodstained floor, and lifted the edge of the dust ruffle.
A pair of wide, terrified eyes stared back at me.
Puppy.
Couldn’t be much more than a year old. Shaking like a leaf, belly flat to the floor, tail tucked so hard it nearly disappeared. Everyone stepped back, giving me space. Sergei reached forward, but the puppy scrambled back, whimpering louder.
“We got to shut him up.”
“Let me try.” I held my hand out—low, palm up, steady. “Come on, boy.”
The pup crept forward. Slowly. Hesitantly. But he came. Crawled out. Shoved his little head under my palm. He was a Beagle—skinny, young, and looked terrified.
I picked him up, his heartbeat racing under my fingers.
Sergei sighed. “Maxim, you can’t. He might be traceable. Someone might come looking.”
The puppy whimpered and pressed tighter against me.
I looked down at him, this trembling scrap of fear.
“You think Wren likes dogs?” I murmured.
Sergei groaned. “Maxim?—”
