Cold Hearted Bastard (Underworld Kings)

But I wasn't like most of the world. I’d never submit to any man.

Leonid Petrov was dangerous and violent. He was a sociopath who killed simply because it was Sunday or he’d just finished a family meal. And his two sons, Dmitry and Nikolai, followed perfectly in his footsteps. Baby psychopaths in the fucking making.

“He’s in his office, waiting for you,” the soldier said in Russian.

I headed toward Leonid’s office, passing closed doors that led to private rooms for his clientele. There was a soldier standing off to the side beside Leonid’s office. He gave me a nod before turning to open the door for me.

I stepped inside and instantly took in the surroundings. You had to know the layout of any place to be prepared. I saw Dmitry and Nikolai sitting on the couch in front of the fire. Dmitry, eldest son to Leonid and heir to the Desolation Bratva underworld empire, watched me with the same sociopathic glint in his eyes I knew was reflected back from mine. I’d heard the stories of Dmitry, of his initiation, of how he’d slaughtered five men with brutal clarity and force that had even momentarily impressed me. He’d be the perfect Pakhan one day, no doubt, a leader who made Satan cower in the dark.

Nikolai, Petrov’s youngest son, let a slow, sardonic grin spread across his face. He might have been the “lighter” of the two in terms of brutality, but his easygoing attitude and what others might see as “soft” was nothing but a twisted facade of a man who I knew had once torn off the finger- and toenails of a poor bastard who’d cut him off in traffic.

Nikolai didn’t bother with the glass for his alcohol and instead held up the whiskey bottle and tipped it in my direction in greeting before giving me a wink as he brought it to his lips and took a long drink.

Leonid was in the middle of a conversation on his cell phone. My shoulders tensed and my fingers twitched to go for my gun just being in the same room with the bastard.

Once he was off the phone, he leaned back and clasped his hands to rest them on top of his abdomen. He gave me a slow smile, one that was anything but pleasant. The fucker didn’t know happiness, not if it didn’t involve slitting someone’s throat and bathing in their blood.

Dmitry and Nikolai started a conversation with each other, the Russian too low for me to hear. Leonid rose and walked around his desk before leaning against the edge and staring at me with dark, unflinching eyes.

“I wanted to personally thank you for handling the… little issue we had the other night with Maksim.” Leonid’s words had his sons’ conversation stopping. Although I kept my gaze on the Pakhan, I sensed his sons standing and walking toward him before they flanked their father. Their expressions were the same stony composure as the leader of the Bratva.

“No thanks needed,” I said, focusing on Leonid. The other two little shits not something I was afraid of. “It’s what I do.”

Leonid inclined his head in agreement. “You can’t understand how hard it was for me not to just dispose of that trash myself.” He took his hands out of his pocket and smoothed them over his tie, one that was silk and colored bloodred, the same shade that seeped out of the hundred different wounds on the man who’d offended Leonid. “But you see, it wouldn’t look good for me in our business. We don’t deal with that messy side of things.” He grinned and held his hands out. “Bad for business, you understand. We need to keep up appearances.”

I wasn’t sure why he was telling me any of this. He’d taken a fucking melon baller to the poor fuck’s eyes. His fingers had been cut off and part of his scalp torn from his skull. Not to mention the other twenty brutal acts I’d noticed covering his body. Or missing from it. And all because the bastard had looked at Leonid’s eighteen-year-old daughter. His precious Tatiana.

Although Leonid and his sons could’ve been called psychotic, and that would’ve been an understatement, I was pretty sure the fucker who had his life ended pretty damn violently had probably done more than just looked.

The kind of death the man had gotten would have been because of an act of aggression toward her, an insult whispered in her direction, or even an obscene look. The fucker probably hit on Tatiana.

His dick had still been intact—or so I’d unfortunately noticed, since he’d been naked when I’d been dispatched to get rid of the body—so I knew he hadn’t actually touched Tatiana. If the poor bastard had, they would’ve cut his cock off and shoved it in his mouth to make a point.