Page 102 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

No, he isn’t standing. He’s leaning into a door, ramming all of his weight against it again and again.

And he looks pissed.

I switch to the recorded tape and scroll back five minutes. Just far enough back to see Belle run down the hallway and duck into the storage closet, Roger hot on her tail. Her shirt was open at the collar, her bra exposed.

“I have to go, Florian,” I snarl, stepping off the raised platform.

“I’m not done, sir. You have to—”

“Go,” I finish for him, switching back to the livestream on my way out the door. Roger still isn’t in the closet yet. For his sake, he better hope he never breaks in. “I’ll bring the suit back.”

“In one piece, please,” he begs.

I don’t bother answering. He’s seen enough of my ruined suits to know that’s a promise I can’t keep.

With the security footage still flickering on my phone screen, I step outside and break into a run. I’m two blocks down from the building. It will be faster to run than to drive.

And the faster I get into Zhukova Incorporated, the sooner I can tear Roger limb from useless limb.

* * *

“Is everything okay, Mr. Zhukova?” the security guard asks when I burst into the building. “Do you need any assistance?”

I could ask him to come help me dispose of Roger. It would be easier that way. But part of me is looking forward to taking care of the bastard myself.

“I haven’t needed assistance since the day I was born, Stan.”

The elevator doors close on his frowning face.

The ride up is agonizingly slow. I bounce from foot to foot, trembling with pent-up energy. My cell service cuts out in the elevator, but thus far, Roger still hasn’t made it into the storage closet.

The familiar pulse of adrenaline moves through me. It’s always the same before a fight.

As soon as the doors open, I launch forward into mayhem.

“Open the fucking door, you bitch!”

Roger is yelling so loudly he didn’t hear the elevator ding when it arrived. He certainly doesn’t hear me coming.

Which makes the thud of his forehead bouncing off the solid wooden door even more satisfying.

I’m palming the back of his head, holding it like a coconut I’d like to crack. And fuck, I’d like to do exactly that. Break him open, spill his insides until there is nothing left.

“What the—” he moans.

Before he can finish, I bash his head against the door again.

I release him and step back, watching as he staggers away from the door, blood streaming down his face. His eyes are glazed over, unseeing. He swipes out at me with both arms, but misses horribly.

In different circumstances, I’d revel in pounding Roger into mincemeat. I’d beat him bloody and then beat him some more.

But not when Belle is trapped in a closet, terrified.

Roger stumbles against the wall. I punch him again. His head snaps to the side and he drops to his knees.

“Why are you—” His lip is split, blood dribbling down his chin. “Why?”

He doesn’t deserve an explanation.

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