Brutal Boss (Bratva Brothers 1)

He’s heading toward my house or the highway. Both are in the same direction, and if he gets on the highway, I’m good as dead.

No one will find my body. No one will ever know what happened to me.

Mikhail doesn’t answer.

But I breathe a sigh of relief when he pulls up out front of my home. Maybe he’ll leave me here, tell me never to contact him again, and we’ll part ways.

Could I be that lucky?

He kills the engine and steps out.

Mikhail waits a moment outside of the vehicle. He’s on his phone, texting someone. Is he trying to get information on me?

Shit.

I turn sideways in my seat, staring out the window at him as I attempt to break free of the zip ties. I lift my arms as high as possible and swing downward and out, breaking the bindings.

It burns, but it’s worth it.

Mikhail shoves his phone into his pocket and opens the back door before I have time to react.

He grabs me by the arm and forcefully escorts me to my front door. “I see someone figured their way out of the restraints.” His top lip snarls like he’s disgusted with me. “Key.” He says it like it’s a command.

“It’s in my purse,” I say, the small handbag in my grasp.

He yanks it from me, unzips the leather, and fiddles through until he’s satisfied before shoving it back at me.

“You find it,” he grunts.

Was he looking for my key or searching for a weapon in my purse?

It’s dark outside, but I’m able to find my key without too much difficulty. I unlock the front door and push the door open.

Mikhail is on my heel. He nudges me inside and follows.

Is this where the FBI is going to find my dead body? At least I have a gun hidden inside my apartment. But it’s in my bedroom. There is surveillance equipment, but I doubt the FBI is watching my every move, especially at this late hour.

“What are we doing here, Mikhail?” I ask, turning to face him. I place my purse on the counter and slip out of my shoes.

“I need to know that I can trust you, and I don’t think I can,” he says. He steps closer, invading my personal space.

I should back away, cower.

But I don’t. I stare up into his unwavering gaze. His hands are bunched into fists, and he’s fuming. “You betrayed me!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I work for Steele Concierge Medical.”

He snorts. “Yeah, that’s what you want me to believe. I have my men doing another background check on you. Digging deeper into your past.” He waves his gun at me. “Sit on the sofa.”

“Mikhail—”

He cuts me off before saying anything further and shoves me backward onto the couch. “I said sit,” he barks.

“I’m not one of your men you can order around.”

He huffs under his breath. “No, you’re right. My men are worth more to me than you are, little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl!” I snarl at him and jump to my feet, darting toward the door.

He grabs me by the waist.

“Get off me!” I shout and shrug out of his grasp, stepping on his toe and kneeing him in the groin.

Mikhail growls at me. “That’s enough!” He lifts his gun to my forehead. “Don’t give me another reason. You’re already on borrowed time.”

“So, you’re going to kill me?” I should be afraid. Any sane person would be quivering and begging for their life.

“I ought to,” Mikhail says and pushes me to sit back down on the couch.

When I oblige, he lowers his gun to his side. It’s still in his grip. I could disarm him, but he could also shoot me in my attempt. He’s well-trained and not just any thug with a gun.

He’s bratva.

He’s a ruthless monster. I was warned to tread carefully, get him to trust me, and not get too close.

Sleeping with him wasn’t part of the plan, and there is no way I can tell my colleagues what we did. Not if I want to keep my job when this is over and done with. That’s assuming I’m still alive and Mikhail hasn’t killed me himself or ordered a hit on my head.

“But you won’t?” There’s a sliver of hope strumming through my chest. “You care about me,” I say.

“I don’t care about a rat.”

I haven’t told the FBI anything. At least not yet. I haven’t betrayed his trust, aside from masking the truth and lying about who I am.

But he won’t see it like that. Do I come clean? Do I tell him the truth?

He’ll probably kill me, but maybe I deserve it.

“You’re right. I work for the FBI,” I say.