by Lea Griffith
Dmitry looked his greatest enemy in the face and shook his head. “I was being serviced in the bathroom, Vadim. I missed it. When I came out, there was chaos and people were screaming about a woman. I tried to save Boris but was too late. He was already gone when I found him among the dead.”
Vadim wiped a tear from his eye. Dmitry wanted to punch him until blood poured from his face instead of tears. He relaxed his hands lest he shatter the glass he held.
“My brother had his faults. I’m sure Anatoly is somehow responsible for this. I tried to tell him but he refused to listen to me,” Vadim reported sadly. “It seems I now have a position to fill, Dmitry.”
Dmitry barely controlled his wince. The bastard would waste no time, eh? “You know I am searching for my family’s killer, Vadim. I have no time for the Bratva,” he bit out.
Vadim’s face tightened, and his gaze skated away from Dmitry’s. The bastard was about to lie. It was the perfect time to take his life but something held Dmitry’s hand.
“Dmitry, there is time to right old wrongs. For tonight let’s look to the future. I need an underboss. I know you’ve been working with those Americans.” He spat the word as if the taste was foul.
Dmitry smiled. Vadim didn’t notice.
“I can forgive you working against my interests if you will but return to the fold.” He let a few moments pass before he finished with, “Your father would want that. And I’ve been fair in not pursuing you these last few years. I had to give you time to grieve. But the time to return to family is upon you.”
Dmitry was many things—patient, understanding, but in the face of Vadim’s lies and manipulations he was left with nothing but wrath. He understood what made Bone tick in that moment. What made all the women of First Team long for the death of the ones who’d created them.
Yes, he’d trained to kill. Yes, he’d dispensed his fair share of death. But somewhere in the midst of his father’s follies and the loss of his brother, sisters, and mother, Dmitry had become more than a simple desire for revenge.
It’s why the hatred caught him unaware. At that moment he was revenge. It beat at him, much as his lust for a killer earlier. The rhythm of that need pounded in his veins. He reached under his jacket before a man walked into the room toward Vadim. The way the big man walked, flowed in his space, reminded him of someone but Dmitry couldn’t place who. He wore the skin of a mafia enforcer but there was more under the mask of indifference and it put Dmitry on alert.
The man whispered in Vadim’s ear and Vadim’s gaze landed on Dmitry, before he veiled his eyes and nodded at his man.
“Dmitry, this is Azrael. He’s got something he wants to show us,” Vadim said softly.
Interesting. The man was named after the Angel of Death from the Koran. His senses sharpened, taking in the man’s hands, calloused with use on the edges—the hands of a fighter. Azrael held himself still and wary and it struck Dmitry who he reminded him of…Bone.
He took a slow, even breath and let it out. Time slowed infinitesimally. There were five men outside the closed door to the study. Each had three handguns but limited training in using them. Vadim was a pussy, and therefore no threat.
But Azrael, well he was a different story. Dmitry held onto his glass. He’d been stripped of his weapon when he walked in the door, but the glass was just as useful. He’d have to get closer to whoever needed killing but he would be fine.
“Come and watch with us, syn,” Vadim urged.
Son, he called him. The pounding at the base of his skull returned but Dmitry nodded and walked closer to the pair. Azrael turned on the large screen television hanging on the wall and there in high-definition display was Yesipov’s club earlier that night. Azrael then stepped back, head lowered, hands at his sides, waiting.
Dmitry glanced at Vadim. “What is this?”
Vadim shook his head and his mouth turned down. “It is the club earlier tonight. There you see,” he pointed at the screen, “there you are. And there! There is the woman who killed my brother! Did you not tell me you were in another part of the club and therefore didn’t see my son and nephew taken down?”
Vadim’s tone was slick, oily, and Dmitry readied himself. He judged Azrael’s stance, took the measure of the man and prepared. He’d take Vadim first. There would be no time to revel but the killing would be done and that’s why he’d returned to Russia.
For Vadim and for Bone.
Vadim’s gaze remained on the screen and from the corner of his eye Dmitry saw the entire scene play out. Vadim cursed and cried out and Dmitry made his move.
“You killed Boris!” Vadim yelled.
Dmitry was on him before the final word slid from his lips. He crashed the crystal against the other man’s skull, following him down to the ground and straddling him. He had just grabbed a shard of the glass when a pistol pressed against his temple.
“Let him up,” the man, Azrael, said in a voice so low Dmitry had to strain to hear him.
He spoke perfect English, with no accent and his voice carried the same tones First Team’s did. Death.
Dmitry considered going for the gun, but the man chuckled and cocked the pistol. “Do not do it, Asinimov. I know you enjoy a good fight, but tonight is not about you. Now get up and take a seat on the sofa, won’t you?”
Vadim groaned under Dmitry. It would be so easy, but what would taking Vadim’s life mean if Dmitry had to give his own in the process? Revenge would be sweet but the objective was to live to experience it.
The desire to kill thrashed inside him and there was Bone, drifting through his thoughts. No, Dmitry had more to live for than the death of Vadim Yesipov. He raised his hands slowly, letting the shard of glass slide down his sleeve until it finally fell to his waistband.
“Get up, Asinimov. We’ll have company soon,” Azrael murmured.
“Oh, you started without me.” Her voice stroked over him, the dulcet tones soothing but parlaying her intent with ease. Soon was now.
It did not surprise Dmitry she was there. Not at all.
“I would have expected to meet you on equal footing, Azrael. That you’re here indicates Joseph is getting sloppy.”
“We are not equals, Bone Breaker. I am your superior by far,” Azrael said with a smile.
She tsked and then laughed. It was a hard, caustic sound. Dmitry winced as it scraped his eardrums.
“You and your brothers are superior in your minds only. I pity that you believe Joseph when he tells you any different. What must it be like to do his bidding, thinking there is no one better than you? What must it be like to be that stupid?”
Azrael didn’t take her bait and just as Dmitry made to move, the man shot him in the shoulder. Blinding pain ripped through him as he fell to the side and rolled behind the sofa. He breathed through the sting, shoving it aside as he took in the scene—Vadim sobbing like a baby on the floor, the replay of what happened in the club earlier on the television and there was Bone, by the door watching Azrael, who now faced her.
“Did you think shooting Asinimov would hurt me?” she asked in a deadened voice.
Her face was a testament that there was a God and he knew beauty. Her tone was proof there was a devil and he’d built her from the ashes of his despair.
Her high forehead and cheekbones, straight nose with nostrils that flared just slightly, and full lips, though all perfectly formed, were simply a backdrop for the hazel glass of her doe eyes. Those eyes could skewer a man, make him forget he’d been born for anything other than gazing at her. Inside the jade-splintered blue-tinged gold were a million secrets and Dmitry wanted to discover them all, forget them and do it all over again.
He’d lost his fucking mind.
Azrael remained perfectly still. “My goal is not to hurt, sister. It is to destroy. The others are searching for you even now. The Sicariorum are coming.”
The hair on the back of Dmitry’s neck stood on end. Sicariorum was the Latin word for assassins. That they’d been named, much as First
Team was named, gave Dmitry both pause and concern.
“We are all assassins in our own way, Azrael. There is nothing to fear when you face one cut from the same cloth as you. In fact, it should be your greatest joy. Put the gun down, brother,” she ordered, apparently unfazed by the fact others like her were seeking to kill her.
Disbelief streaked through Dmitry when the man did as Bone ordered. Honor among killers. Vadim’s sobs had quieted though he remained on the floor. Dmitry too remained where he was, waiting for another opportunity. He wouldn’t allow Azrael to harm her but neither would he move too soon.
Azrael never took his gaze from Bone. It was eerie the concentration the man displayed. He was too controlled by half and that more than anything else worried Dmitry.
“We could dance Azrael, but it would be a waste of effort on my part. There is nothing you can teach me. Come to me, brother, and let me ease your pain,” she said softly.
“I have no pain. I am as you now, a perfect killer,” he returned, assurance peppering his words.
She nodded, and the action was sad. “The perfection you seek is but a myth. Without truly feeling pain, knowing every nuance in your heart, body and soul, you cannot inflict it. Tell me, Azrael, where is Joseph? Close? Here already? Tell me and I will make it quick for you.”
Bone hadn’t moved an inch from her place at the door yet Dmitry recognized she knew everything about her surroundings. He’d known she would come and try to steal Vadim from him. The interplay between her and a man who was obviously another of Joseph’s killers had him thrown though.
She treated Azrael as a mother would treat her child. Loving. Patient.
A look of rage blanketed Azrael’s face then. And so it began. He was in his space one moment and locked in combat with Bone the next. Dmitry barely followed his movements he was so quick.
Dmitry stood and raced for the gun Azrael set aside. He’d just grabbed it when the sound of bones popping and cracking met his ear.
He turned and watched as Bone held both of Azrael’s hands in hers, crushing them. Azrael made not a sound but he was on his knees. Bone wasn’t breathing hard and did not have a single mark on her. That such a tiny, delicate woman held a man twice her size in check with nothing more than her hands would have been unbelievable had he not witnessed it for himself.
“Brother,” she whispered. “You weren’t ready for me. I know there are others and it is my promise to you that I will free them as I free you. You have been brave. Take your peace and find forever.”
Azrael’s head drooped and it seemed he was bowing, accepting and acceding to the greater power.
“Don’t do this, Togarmah,” Dmitry said over the rushing of the blood in his ears, using her given name to jar her.
She stilled for a moment but didn’t acknowledge him in any other way. She released Azrael’s hands and stroked over the soot-colored strands of his hair. The she grabbed his head in her hands and between one breath and the next she twisted, breaking his neck and taking his life.
She glanced up at Dmitry and he went to a knee, the breath knocked from him. Her eyes were black, the pupils blown and glassy. Pain, fear, and pleasure commanded that reaction of the pupils.
Bone had already acknowledged pain was her friend and she felt no fear. That left pleasure and it broke Dmitry’s heart that a woman, any woman, would know joy in killing.
“The mistake was mine in giving you my name. Allow me to correct it now. Do not ever call me that again, Asinimov. My name is my own,” she bit out. “I am Bone and it is all I will ever be.”
Her voice raked his soul.
She stepped over Azrael’s body and picked up a wing-backed chair, wedging it under the door handles to the room. Then she turned and made her way to Vadim. She didn’t acknowledge Dmitry in any way.
He would have intercepted her but something stopped him—some intangible caution kept his feet still. This kill was his by blood right but he remained where he was. He didn’t understand it at all.
She lifted Vadim by his lapels and thrust him on the sofa. The man whimpered. Vadim was at least two hundred pounds heavier than Bone and a good foot taller, but she moved him as if were a ragdoll and he let her.
“You have killed innocents,” she said softly.
Vadim opened his mouth but nothing came out.
Bone walked around behind him and stood, not touching him. It was enough of a threat that Vadim’s pants wet at the front.
She sighed and it rang with death. “You have sold young girls into slavery for years and years, Vadim Yesipov.”
“He is mine,” Dmitry said, finding his voice. He couldn’t let her have him.
Her gaze sought his and when their eyes met, Dmitry hissed in a breath.
“Why would you take him?”
“He killed my father,” Dmitry answered. He was on autopilot, every sense blanketed, overcome, by her.
She shook her head. “No, he did not.”
Chills danced up his spine as a warning shot through his brain. Something was wrong with this entire picture.
Dmitry didn’t move, blood pouring from his shoulder, pain breaking over him in great waves as confusion rained down. “You know who it was,”
She remained silent, simply staring.
“I gave the order,” Vadim wheezed from the couch.
“It mattered not that you gave any order, Yesipov. You forget who pulls your strings,” Bone quipped.
She cocked her head but her gaze never left Dmitry and his soul froze. “Who was it?” he demanded, his voice strident in the enormous, quiet room.
“A killer.” She directed her next words to Vadim Yesipov. “I have followed you from the time I knew your name. I have watched as you and your partner sold young girls to Joseph, stepping away from their cries for freedom, abandoning them to a life filled with strife and pain. Tell me, Yesipov, I would know—do you think you are a good man?”
Dmitry cursed and it rang through the room. But still he didn’t move. He had waited years for this moment. He’d suspected Vadim was the one behind his sisters’ disappearance. Though he’d been nothing more than a child himself when they were taken, once he’d reached his teens, he and his father searched for them.
Then his father was murdered and Dmitry had been given another quest. Always he searched for killers. He was sick of it.
But his sisters were never far from his mind or heart. Over the years he’d managed to unravel a bit of the tangle of their disappearance. When he discovered Vadim had been involved in it Dmitry vowed to make him pay.
One thing led to another and then First Team had been in Trident’s lap. So the time for vengeance on Vadim Yesipov was upon him. Was he going to let another killer step in and take the right from him?
“He is not yours. He is mine, Bullet’s, Arrow’s, Blade’s, and…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze pierced him and it seemed she read his mind.
“Say it,” he demanded. “I would hear her name from your lips.”
Dmitry had heard her whisper the name as she’d taken Minton that morning in Virginia. It shocked him as nothing else had. Of course there were many girls in Russia who held that name. It might not be…
“He is Ninka’s and by right of her suffering, he is ours to take.”
It was if saying the dead girl’s name cracked open her soul or at the very least her memories. There was a pregnant pause and Dmitry took a step forward.
Bone cocked her head, and the killer peering from her eyes measured him. It was eerie how the violence bled off her, soaking the room in her intent.
“Do not move any farther, Asinimov. It is time to deal death and I would not take you by mistake,” she dropped into the silence.
He stilled, recognizing she was on a hair trigger. Her fingers held Vadim’s head surely, almost but not quite stroking the other man as she had Azrael.
“She was mine,” Dmitry told her.
“She was ours the moment this man sold her to Joseph. I know what my sisters h
ave failed to realize—she was your sibling. I have kept your secret and I recognize your blood rights here, now. But you did not watch her break. You did not hold her hand in the dark of night. You did not feed her when she starved. Where were you when she needed you, Asinimov?”
His heart shredded. He’d been a child himself when Ninka and their sister disappeared. Yet every single day he blamed himself for not finding them. It was a cross he bore in his waking and sleeping moments.
She shook her head when he said nothing, and then lowered her mouth to Vadim’s ear. “Do you think you are a good man? Give me your truth and I will make it easy. Lie and I will make it more painful that you could ever imagine.”
“She will come for you,” Vadim said with a sob.
“And I will be waiting,” Bone assured him.
“Go to hell!” Vadim yelled. His voice was hoarse, the knowledge he was about to perish written in the deep grooves of his face.
Bone smiled and it was an ugly thing. “Esli ja popadu v ad, ja vozjmu tebja s soboj,” she promised him in perfect Russian. “Or I could just send you to wait for me.”
Dmitry took another step forward but he wouldn’t be in time. She’d given him more in the last two minutes than he’d had in the last twelve years of searching. Ninka had been with the women of First Team and then she’d been no more. And Vadim was but a part of the scourge who’d sent his sister to her death. There was another, a woman head of the Bratva, and Bone knew who she was.
What happened next appeared in slow motion to Dmitry. She moved with such grace, such wicked beauty, that even when she murdered it was a dance. She twisted Vadim’s head, stepped back, and pushed his body forward.
Bone closed her eyes and lifted her face to the heavens as if praying for forgiveness, but Dmitry was well-aware she cared nothing for it. She had a duty and she’d seen it through. She cared naught for anything else.
Vadim fell in a dead heap on the floor and the sound of gunfire erupted. The doors to the study began to splinter as machine gun rounds ripped into the wood. The chair she’d wedged under the door handles fell into a useless heap and Dmitry glanced at her.