Chapter 15: Bratva Prince: Chapter 15

After dropping Illayana, Lukyan and Adrian off at the airstrip, I headed back towards the house. Dayton was still in the backseat, quiet as a mouse. He hadn’t said a word since they left. I wasn’t sure if he was afraid to talk or if he just didn’t want to talk to me.

It didn’t bother me either way. I was fine with silence.

We cruised down the highway at a comfortable speed, the world flying past us outside. Music played lightly in the car, so low I was able to hear the rumble from Dayton’s stomach.

The kid was hungry.

“You want something to eat?” I asked, my hands gliding over the steering wheel as I took a turn.

Dayton grumbled a barely audible, “No.”

I felt like rolling my eyes. If he wanted to act like a pouty child, fine. I wasn’t going to baby him.

My phone rang, Nik’s name flashing on the display screen on the dashboard.

I answered the call.

“I’ve got a hit on Rayna,” Nik’s voice blasted through the car before I could even get a word in.

“Where?” I growled, adrenaline surging through my body.

Yes. This was exactly what I needed, an outlet to focus all my anger and frustration on.

“A small café in North Las Vegas. My facial recognition program picked her up about an hour ago coming out of Crave Café.”

“Send me the address.”

“Already done.”

My phone pinged with an incoming text. I picked it up and put the address Nik sent into the GPS. Once it calculated the route, I sped towards it like a man on a mission.

I parked the car in an alley behind Crave Café, my excitement reaching new heights. There were two different types of hunts I loved indulging in. One was with a woman. When she ran from me and I chased her down (all consensual, of course). The sounds of their feet pounding along the ground, the way their breath quickened as I got closer and closer. It was a hunt I thoroughly enjoyed.

Then there was when I hunted down an enemy. There was nothing sexual about it. It was filled with blood, death and violence—three of my most favourite things. It was all about the strategy. The intricacies of tracking them down. The anticipation of knowing that with each step, I got closer and closer to my mark.

I stepped out of the car, tucking my Beretta behind my back. I had another two in a holster strapped to my chest, concealed by my black suit jacket.

When Dayton didn’t get out of the car, I tapped on the window. “Come on, let’s go.”

He begrudgingly got out, a sour look on his face. “Where are we? What are we doing here?”

I led the way out of the alley and towards Crave Café. “Business,” was all I replied with.

A small bell dinged overhead when we opened the door and walked into the café. Chatter and laughter swirled around the air. The smell of coffee and freshly cooked pastries filled my nostrils. People sat at tables and stood in clusters, totally immersed in whatever they were doing and who they were with.

I took a thorough look around. Rayna was nowhere to be seen—not that I was expecting her to still be here. A line of people led up to the wooden counter, where a young teen stood serving them. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but here, a bored expression on his face as he took people’s orders.

We joined the line. After a few minutes we reached the front.

“What’ll you have?” The name badge pinned to his shirt read ‘Matt’.

I slipped into another persona, one completely different from my own. I changed the sound of my voice, making it lighter, more pleasant, and spoke with a smile.

It felt completely foreign to me, but it was a necessary role I had to play to get the answers I needed.

“Hello, my name is Doug. I’m looking for someone. A young woman. Brown hair. Blue eyes. About 5’8. She would have come in about an hour ago?”

Dayton’s jaw dropped open at the change in me, staring at me like he had no idea who he was looking at.

Matt chewed slowly on the piece of gum in his mouth, studying me closely. There was a flare of recognition on his face while I described Rayna, so I was confident he knew who she was. At the very least, he had seen her before.

“Why, you lookin’ for her?” he asked.

“I’m a bounty hunter. There’s a warrant out on her arrest. If you help me out, I’ll cut you in.”

Matt’s eyes widened at the prospect of money. At a job like this, I bet he was earning minimum wage. Maybe less. “How much?”

“A thousand dollars.” I pulled out the roll of $100 notes I travelled with to show him I was serious.

His eyes widened further. “The chick you’re looking for comes in once or twice a week. Always on different days. She orders a half-cap, no foam caramel macchiato with a chocolate chip cookie. She always sits at that booth over there and waits for a guy who joins her. They sit, eat, chat and then leave a half an hour later.”

I was impressed with the amount of detail he gave. “The guy, what does he look like?”

“I dunno. Tall. Dark hair. I wasn’t looking at him. I was lookin’ at her. She’s hot.”

Could be Dominik, I thought.

I pulled out a plain white card from my pocket with nothing but the number to a disposable cell phone on it. I handed it to Matt. “The next time she comes in here, you call me. Try to keep her here as long as you can. Screw up her drink order. Chat her up. Do whatever you have to do to keep here as long as you can.”

Matt nodded. “I gotchu man. I’m your guy.”

I took one of the $100 bills from the roll and held it out to him. He hesitated for only a second before snatching it up.

“Thank you, Matt,” I said, putting on my best non-threatening smile. “I look forward to hearing from you.” I turned and left the café, Dayton hot on my heels.

“What the fuck was that?” Dayton shrieked once we were outside.

“What was what?” My voice slipped back to its natural tone, my Russian accent coating my words.

“That! The whole alter ego thing. It was like you were a completely different person. In there you were almost…nice. I’ve only known you for half a day, but I know you’re not fucking nice. You’re rotten to the core. Just like my dad.”

“Mikhail’s not rotten.”

“I know what he does. He sells people, like one of those human traffickers you always hear about on the TV. He’s vile.”

I stopped him on the sidewalk. The bend in the alley where the car was parked was just up ahead. “You clearly don’t know him well enough, because you’re wrong.”

There was a certain persona Mikhail liked to portray. He wanted others to think he was this evil, terrible guy, that he did horrible, unspeakable things. But it wasn’t true. Yes, he was involved in the skin trade, but it wasn’t in the way most people thought.

“Mikhail doesn’t sell people. Anybody who’s there is there by choice.”

Dayton scoffed, not believing me. “I’m not an idiot. I saw their faces. They didn’t want to be there, being tossed from person to person like some worn out sex doll.”

“They might not have wanted it, but they chose it. Mikhail is a businessman more than anything else. And as a businessman, he knows what sells the most: sex and violence. He grants small loans to people. If they can’t pay it back he gives them two choices. They earn it back by working for him, either in the sex den or the fight pit, or he takes the amount they owe him as pounds of flesh. He doesn’t kidnap people and sell them to others like actual human traffickers.”

Though he liked others to believe he did. A man in Mikhail’s position had to always be weary of others trying to challenge him, to remove him from the game. Enabling the rumours that circled around the streets about him helped deter those who thought they could take him on.

Case in point: when we interrogated Miguel after Illayana’s first kidnapping attempt. We used all those horror stories about Mikhail to scare Miguel into answering our questions.

It worked perfectly.

“It’s not much of a choice though, is it?” Dayton said, shaking his head. “Either they do it or they get hurt. It’s an ultimatum, one where each option is just as bad as the other.”

I shrugged, continuing on. Dayton followed. “Regardless, it’s their choice. They don’t have to borrow the money to start with. They’re warned of the consequences if they can’t pay it back in time, and they still choose to go through with it.”

When I turned the corner into the alley, the first thing I noticed was the motorbikes. Three of them. One parked in front of my car, one at the side and one behind, essentially boxing it in.

Lounging on my SUV were the three riders, smoking cigarettes and laughing amongst themselves. They were loud, boisterous, like a group of rowdy teenagers hanging around trying to intimidate anyone who walked past.

I didn’t slow down as I made my way towards them. Dayton faltered behind me when he noticed the bikers.

“Stay behind me and don’t say a word,” I whispered over my shoulder. I took a second to glance at him. He looked nervous.

“This your car?” one of the bikers asked as I came to a stop a small distance away.

The name on his motorcycle vest read The Dirty Vultures. The word PROSPECT was stamped across the front. He had peroxide bleach-blonde hair and a slim but athletic build. He stayed exactly where he was, ass on the hood of my car, leaning back against the windshield like he owned it.

The other two bikers were on the roof, the one with the bald head sitting cross-legged and the young tweener-looking one standing behind him. Arrogant, smug smiles were plastered across their faces. They assumed because they outnumbered us, they held the upper hand.

They didn’t.

“Hey, Gorilla! You hear me? I said, ‘Is this your car?”

My eyes snapped to him at the ear-piercing scrape that followed. Peroxide dragged the tip of a knife along the hood, keying my car.

Oh, you’re going to pay for that.

I slipped into another persona like I did in the café, but this one was different. I hunched my shoulders slightly, making sure to give off a terrified, docile aura. “Yes, this is my car.”

“Good,” Peroxide smiled. He jumped off the car and the other two followed, flouncing over to me. “I’ll take the money you owe us now.”

My brows creased slightly. “Money I owe?”

“For parking here.” He gave me a ‘Duh’ kind of look, as if I should know what he was referring to. “The Dirty Vultures own these streets, and if you want to park on them you need to pay a parking fee.” He lifted up the front of his shirt, revealing a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. It was a crude weapon compared to what I was packing. It’d seen better days. He still had a knife in one hand and I’m sure he thought he was an intimidating sight.

“I wasn’t aware of any parking fee.” I could feel Dayton at my back, inching closer and closer. I didn’t have to see him to know he was frightened. He might talk a big game but in reality, he was just a scared little kid surrounded by danger.

Peroxide smirked, lowering his shirt like the threat of the gun would be enough to keep me in line. “Well, now you are. So pay up big boy, otherwise—”

“We’ll beat the shit out of you,” one of the other bikers cut in, saddling up to Peroxide’s side.

Their threats could use a bit more work. They were mediocre at best.

This guy was a little older. Bald head, fat nose, a little on the chubby side. PROSPECT was stitched across the front of his vest, like it was on Peroxide’s.

I put my hands up, palms out, feigning total compliance. “Alright. I don’t want any trouble. You guys want money? I’ve got money.”

When I reached into the inside of my suit jacket and pulled out the roll of hundreds, three pairs of eyes gleamed with greed. They all rushed forward, lining up side by side in the hopes of appearing more intimidating.

I held the cash out at arm’s length, hunching my shoulders even more to give off the illusion I was scared of them.

Peroxide laughed, pointing at me. “All those muscles are just for show, aren’t they big boy? You’re just one of those gym junkies who’s all about the looks and has none of the power.”

I didn’t say a word, my arm still hanging in the air, hand still holding the cash.

“That’s the problem with guys like you,” Peroxide said, stepping forward. “You think big muscles make you a man but in reality, you’re just a fraud and a pussy.”

Baldy and Tweener laughed.

Peroxide reached for the money and that’s when I dropped the act, letting it melt away, my true self rushing to the surface.

I let the money fall through my fingers, gripped Peroxide’s wrist and pulled him towards me, smashing my forehead into his face.

His cry of pain was like music to my ears.

I kept my hold tight and spun around him, delivering a reverse elbow to Tweener’s nose. As he fell, I stretched my leg across Peroxide to kick Baldy in the face, knocking him out.

Three strikes in three seconds and none of them saw it coming.

Peroxide screeched as I took him to the ground. I straightened his arm out so the inside of this wrist sat against my bent knee and smashed the side of my fist into his elbow, snapping the bone.

Peroxide screamed and screamed and screamed. I let him fall face first and he curled into a ball, cradling his broken arm close to his body. Tears began to flow.

Fucking pussy.

I flattened him to the ground, grabbed a fistful of his disgusting, bleach-blonde hair and slammed his face into the hard concrete. Not just once. Not just twice. But over and over and over again.

Tweener watched in shock and horror, trails of blood running down his chin.

I didn’t take my eyes off Tweener as I slammed Peroxide’s head into the ground repeatedly. Even when Peroxide went completely limp beneath me, his cries dying off, I didn’t stop.

Slam.

Slam.

Slam.

Blood pooled around us. Splattered in all directions.

Slam.

Slam.

Slam.

Tweener lurched to the side, vomit spilling from his mouth.

Slam.

Slam.

Slam.

Something crunched. Snapped. Squelched.

Huffing out a breath, I got to my feet, straightening the lapels of my jacket. I ran a hand through my hair as I stepped over Peroxide’s dead body—there was no way he was still alive after that—and marched towards Tweener.

I could feel the blood dripping down my face, seeping into my clothing. I was covered head to toe.

Baldy was still unconscious, not moving an inch. I barely gave him a second glance as I focused entirely on the young biker currently scurrying away from me on his hands and feet. His back smashed into the brick wall, giving him nowhere else to go.

He whimpered, drowning in fear. It poured off him in waves, making his whole body tremble. His teeth clattered. His breath quickened. Sweat mixed with the blood dripping down his face.

It was a wonderful sight.

I stopped in front of him and slowly brought myself down into a crouch so we were at eye level. He pressed himself further into the wall, trying to get as far away from me as humanly possible.

Gone was the tough, arrogant kid that was here when I showed up, standing on the roof of my car. In his place was the frightened little child he really was.

I ran a hand down my face, smearing Peroxide’s blood into my palm. I gripped Tweener’s chin, forcing him to look at me. “I want you to go back to your Prez and tell him he does not own these streets. The Dirty Vultures do not own these streets. The Bratva do.” I wiped the blood across his face, staining his skin bright red. He gagged and choked, trying to squirm away, but I kept his chin pinched between my fingers. “The next time one of you gets in my way, I’m going to come down to that little clubhouse of yours on the corner of Smith and Third street and burn it to the ground with all of you in it.”

A wet patch grew at his crotch, expanding outwards.

He pissed his pants.

“Do you think you can remember all that, or should I write it down for you?”

Tweener’s body trembled. “I-I’ll remember,” he croaked.

“Good,” I smiled. It was a dark, evil smile, one full of violent promises. I flicked my fingers towards the entrance to the alley. “Run along.”

He was so scared, so eager to get away from me, he completely forgot he had a perfectly good motorbike only a few metres away. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted like someone was chasing him with a chainsaw.

I ran a hand down my body, straightening my jacket as I moved to a stand. It would seem that Thomas was right. The Dirty Vultures were definitely trying to carve out North Las Vegas as their own. The intel he sent over about them explained as much, but it was another thing to actually see it with my own eyes.

I read the reports from the burglaries, the firsthand accounts from business owners claiming they were being harassed by the MC. I saw the photos of the damage that occurred if they refused to pay. But no one was willing to go on record and make an official complaint. Threats had been made not only to the business owners but their families too, and that was more than enough to deter anyone from talking.

I sighed when I turned to face Dayton. He was staring at Peroxide’s dead body, pale as a ghost. His eyes were dull, a sheen of sweat running down the side of his face. He swayed on his feet slightly, like he was having trouble staying upright.

“If you’re going to be sick, do it over there.” I pointed to the dumpsters lining the other brick wall. “You throw up in my car and you’ll be cleaning it up.”

Dayton made a sick, choking noise in his throat. His hand flew to his mouth and he ran, barely making it to the other side before vomit rushed from his mouth with the force of a fire hydrant.

I shook my head, pulling out my phone. It was going to be a mammoth task getting this kid ready—if it was even possible to begin with.

I understood that Dayton’s situation was different than usual. By the time I was his age, I’d seen more death than a mortician at a funeral home. I knew I couldn’t judge him for reacting the way any sane person would in the face of a dead body.

And that was why I was willing to give him a pass.

This time.

I dialled Nik and he answered on the third ring.

“Yeah?”

“I need you to hack into the CCTV cameras surrounding Crave Café and erase the footage.”

Nik sighed heavily through the phone. “Why?”

“Just do it and you’ll see why.”

A few minutes of silence passed, the only thing I could hear being the click-clack sound of what I assumed was Nik’s fingers typing furiously on his keyboard.

“Okay, I’m in the café. I don’t see anything weird.”

“Check the surrounding cameras.”

Another few seconds.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Zander,” Nik hissed. “What the hell happened?”

“Later. I need you to go back and erase the last few hours of footage on this camera, inside Crave and any other cameras in a five-mile radius.”

“On it.”

“I also need you to call the Cleaners.”

The Cleaners were a small, privately owned business who specifically took care of messes like the one I’d just created. They were a neutral organisation, meaning it didn’t matter who called them; us, the Italians, the Triad, Gangs or MCs. As long as they got paid they cleaned up your mess, disposed of the bodies, didn’t ask any questions and, most importantly, kept their mouths shut about anything they’d seen.

“Already on the way. Did you find Rayna?”

“No. She was already gone by the time I got there. Speaking of which, I also need you to go through the footage at the café over the last week or so. Apparently, she met up with a man there and—”

“And you want to see if it’s Dominik.”

“Yes.”

“Leave it with me. Anything else?”

“Nyet.”No. “Find out what you can. I’ll be home soon.”

I hung up.

The sound of Baldy groaning caught my attention. He was slowly gaining consciousness.

“Dayton. Get over here.”

Begrudgingly, Dayton shuffled over. He still looked a little sickly, clutching his stomach like he might throw up again. “What?” he grumbled.

I grabbed his arm and marched him over to Baldy. “Knock him out.”

Dayton frowned deeply. “Huh?”

“Knock.” I kicked Baldy onto his back. “Him.” I placed my foot on his chest, making him wheeze. “Out.”

“I-I can’t do that,” Dayton exclaimed, eyes wide.

“I’m going to make this really simple for you, Dayton. Either you knock him out, or I knock you out. Decide.”

“But, I—” His eyes darted between us, back and forth, back and forth.

“Three, two, one—”

Dayton lunged forward and punched Baldy in the face. Well, it was more of a slap really.

First thing on the list: teach the kid how to throw a decent punch.

Dayton wailed on the biker with both fists, a war cry filling his lips. It was…pathetic. But it did the trick.

Baldy groaned and slipped back into unconsciousness.

Dayton panted heavily, as if that tiny display had exerted all his strength.

Task two: work on his stamina.

Blood coated his knuckles, his hands shaking. Whether it was from adrenaline or shock, I wasn’t sure.

I removed my foot from the biker’s chest. “Put him in the trunk.” I popped the boot with a click of a button.

“What?” Dayton huffed, his chest rising and falling. “Why?”

I didn’t answer his question, just continued to stare at him until he squirmed uncomfortably. He eventually got the message and picked himself up. He clasped Baldy’s motorcycle vest and started dragging him along the ground towards the car.

I could have helped him, but I wanted to see if he could actually do it. What he was capable of.

He grunted with exertion, heaving the man’s body across the concrete one pull at a time.

My eyes darted to the entrance of the alley. Luckily we were obscured enough from the dumpsters, pallets and trash. No one would be able to see what was going on unless they looked hard enough. That didn’t mean someone wouldn’t notice eventually, and we’d been here long enough.

After watching Dayton try and fail for the third time to lift Baldy into the trunk, I’d reached the end of my patience. I pushed Dayton aside, lifted the body with ease, hurled him into the car and slammed the trunk shut.

Dayton looked at me with annoyance, like he couldn’t believe how easy it had been for me, while he was a heartbeat away from pulling his back out.

There was also a tint of jealousy in his eyes too, like he wished it could have been that easy for him too.

I could use that to my advantage.

“Get in the car,” I said, heading for the driver’s side. “We’re going home.”