20. Chapter 20

20

Dimitri

T he thud of flesh against flesh echoes through the underground fight club. My fist connects with the poor fucker's face again, and again, and again. Blood sprays, but I don't stop. Can't stop.

Six days . Six fucking days since Wren left my bed. Not that I'm counting.

Another punch. The guy's barely standing now.

Good. I'm not done yet.

My mind drifts to Wren. Thursday night. She'll be at that fucking excuse for a gentlemen's club, shaking her ass for worthless pigs who don't deserve to lick the dirt off her shoes.

Poshol na khuy!

The thought makes me see red. I unleash hell on the poor bastard's gut. He doubles over, wheezing like a punctured tire. Perfect. My knee connects with his face; the crunch of bone is music to my ears. He goes down hard, blood already pooling under his head.

I'm on him before he can blink, my thighs clamping around his ribs. My fists become fucking jackhammers, pounding his face into raw meat. Blood and spit fly with each hit.

Don't care. Can't stop.

The crowd roars, bloodthirsty animals chanting, "Finish him! Finish him!"

But suddenly, I'm not seeing my opponent.

It's Wren, fucking flaunting herself under those sleazy lights. Wrapped around that pole like it's my cock, her legs go on for miles, every goddamn muscle screaming sex as she writhes. That ass— blyat , I can still feel it in my hands, tight and begging to be spanked. She's gyrating like a bitch in heat, hooking every lowlife's stare.

Her tits, those perfect fucking handfuls, bounce with each move. I can almost taste them, remember how they felt against my tongue. Every inch of her body is a reminder of how she rode me, how she clenched around me, how she screamed my name.

She's mine. Every curve, every moan, every drop of sweat. Mine.

Anger roars through my veins like liquid fire. Wren's words echo in my head, mocking me. A thank you fuck ? What the fuck is that? That's like a pity fuck.

My fist rises, ready to obliterate what's left of this poor suka 's face. But I freeze mid-swing.

Blyat . What the fuck am I doing?

It was supposed to be one fucking night. One and done. But here I am, six days later, with nothing but this rage and a cock that won't quit.

One night. That's all it was meant to be. So why can't I get her out of my head?

I growl, low and feral. The crowd's screams fade to white noise.

That's when I spot Sergei at the edge of the ring. His face is grim, a deep scar running along his left cheek twitching as he clenches his jaw. His eyes are hard, alert. The look of a man who's seen too much shit and is about to see more. I know that look. It means trouble.

" Yob tvoyu mat' ," I snarl, stepping back. The poor bastard's not moving. Might be dead. Don't care.

The crowd boos as I walk away. Fuck ‘em. This was supposed to help get her out of my system. It didn't.

"Boss." Sergei appears at my side, his expression tense. He hands me a towel, his voice low and urgent. "Erik called. The distillery's been hit. It's bad."

I freeze, my blood running cold despite the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. "How bad?"

Sergei's eyes dart around, wary of eavesdroppers. "Total loss. Looks like sabotage."

" Blyat ," I snarl, wiping blood from my knuckles. Mine or the other guy's, I'm not sure. "Get the car. Now."

We pull up to the warehouse. Erik's waiting outside, face stony.

He's wearing a tailored Armani suit that probably costs more than most people make in a year. Fucker always did have expensive taste.

"Nice outfit," I grunt, eyeing him. "Fashion show go well?"

Erik's lips twitch, a hint of his usual smirk. "Better than your fight, from the looks of it. You forget how to duck?"

"Fuck off," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. "What happened?"

Erik's face turns serious. "Sasha found it when he came in for the morning shift. Place was a wreck. Security systems were offline, cameras looped."

I clench my fists. "Inside job?"

"Looks that way." Erik nods. "We're checking everyone, but…"

I nod, a silent understanding passing between us. We move away from the men toward a rusted metal door tucked behind a stack of crates.

Erik glances around, making sure we're not followed, then punches in a code on the ancient keypad. The lock clicks, and he heaves the door open with a grunt.

"After you," he mutters, gesturing inside.

I step through, my boots echoing on the concrete floor. Erik follows, pulling the door shut behind us. The sound of it sealing us in is like a coffin lid closing.

We descend a narrow staircase, the air growing thick and damp. At the bottom, another door awaits. Erik enters another code, and this time, the heavy steel door of our storage room groans open.

The stench of burnt sugar and spilled vodka hits me like a freight train as we enter the distillery. Fuckers really did a number on the place.

" Yob tvoyu mat' ," I growl, kicking a piece of charred wood. "How the fuck did this happen?"

Erik's beside me, his face a mask of calm. But I can see the tension in his jaw. "Whoever did this knew our system inside out. It's not just some random hit."

As he speaks, he's tapping away at a tablet, his fingers flying over the screen. Blueprints of our security system flash by, followed by lines of code that mean fuck-all to me. Erik's brow furrows as he scrolls through the data.

"Look at this," he says, tilting the screen toward me. "They used Yuri's access codes to bypass the main firewall, then looped the camera feeds. This wasn't some amateur job."

I lean in, squinting at the gibberish on the screen.

"Yuri? He can't be the rat." I want to rip someone's throat out. Preferably whoever's responsible for this clusterfuck. "Give me names, Erik. I'll make them wish they were never born."

"Easy, D," Erik says, his voice low. "We need information more than we need blood right now."

I snarl, but he's right. Fucking hate when he's right.

We walk through the wreckage. Millions in product, gone. Our international deal, fucked. And somewhere, some mudak is laughing.

"We need to talk to Luka," Erik says.

The name sends a jolt through me. Luka. Which means Sophia. Which means…

No. I'm not thinking about her. Not now.

"Why? This is our mess to clean up."

Erik gives me a look. "Because whoever did this isn't just after our vodka. They're sending a message. To all of us."

I know he's right. Again. Fucking Erik and his logic.

Our phones ping simultaneously. The message makes my blood run cold: "Boss, we found Yuri."

Yuri. Our import-export guy. The man who's been with us since we were snot-nosed brats running errands for Luka's old man. The guy who taught me how to tie a tie for my first formal Bratva meeting. Who just last week was at my place for dinner, bragging about his kids and their damn math trophies like I give a shit.

" Blyat ," I mutter, exchanging a look with Erik. His face is grim, matching the dread pooling in my gut.

We take the stairs two at a time, the metal clanging under our feet. The air gets thicker as we climb, heavy with the stench of copper and fear.

Sergei meets us at the top, his face ashen. "Boss, it's… it's bad."

I push past him, Erik on my heels. The storage room door is open, and I can hear murmured voices inside. My men part like the Red fucking Sea as I enter.

The sight that greets me turns my stomach. And I've seen some shit in my time.

Yuri's body is strung up like a puppet, a mockery of the man he once was. His shirt is in tatters, revealing a torso that's more wound than skin. They worked him over good before they strung him up.

His eyes are open, glassy, staring at nothing. But his face… Christ . It's frozen in a scream that'll haunt my fucking nightmares.

" Yob tvoyu mat' ," Erik breathes beside me. For once, he's got no smart comments.

That's when I see it. The wall behind Yuri, painted in what can only be his blood:

"Предатели получают то, что заслуживают."

"Traitors get what they deserve."

The words swim before my eyes, fury building in my chest like a volcano ready to blow. This isn't just business anymore.

This is personal.