10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 46

The vodka in my glass catches the amber glow of desk lamps as I swirl it. Across the room, Marty DiLaurentis whimpers into the duct tape gagging him. His shabby chinos—already embarrassingly filthy—have been further ruined by the piss stains blooming down both thighs.

Feliks tosses another stack of documents onto the table between us. “Last of his accounts. Transferred everything to that shell corp in Belize, like you said.”

I nod, tracing the laminated edge of Marty’s Patriot Press badge. “And the wife?”

“Took the kids to her sister’s in Poughkeepsie. Left him a Dear John letter that was honestly a little heartbreaking. I’d say she had the lion’s share of the writing talent in that family, wouldn’t you, Marty?” Feliks grins as he slaps the man on the shoulder. “Hey, wanna see her new Tinder profile? Swipe right for divorce!”

Marty makes a wet, gurgling sound.

I take my time finishing my drink. Fuck, it tastes good today. Even though the scent of Marty’s fear is ripe in the air.

I crouch in front of his chair, meeting his bloodshot eyes.

“You wrote lies about my woman,” I say softly.

He shakes his head, snot bubbling at the edges of the tape.

I rip the gag off.

“I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t know she⁠—”

“Hush. You knew.” I press my empty glass to his trembling lower lip. “You wanted clicks. Wanted to humiliate her. But here’s the thing about sharpening your knife in public, motherfucker.” The crystal cracks against his teeth. “Someone always comes for your throat.”

Feliks tosses me a Zippo.

Marty screams when I flick it open.

A call comes as we’re torching his apartment. Feliks answers, his face tightening as he listens. He gets about three seconds into the message before he turns to me with glee in his eyes.

“Sasha… you’re not gonna believe this.”

I pause, a gallon of gasoline in my hand. “You’re no longer blacklisted at Spearmint Rhino?”

He grins. “Better. The Serbs are meeting in two hours—and we know where.”

I drop the can at once. “Tell me everything.”

Salt spray from the harbor slicks the docks into a black mirror. Cranes loom like skeletons above us, casting shadows over tonight’s target: a ship called The Odyssey. The scuttled cruiser lists in its dry dock cradle, exposing barnacles coating the underside. One porthole flickers dimly; the rest are dark.

It’s seen better days. This whole place has. But the rust and rot have an epicenter, and it’s exactly where these Serbian rats like to congregate.

At my side, Feliks adjusts his night vision goggles. “Thermals show twenty-three hostiles. All concentrated in the main bridge, right where that window is lit.”

I check to my left and right. The darkness amongst the boatyard is filled with darker shadows amongst it. My Bratva, out in full force, bristling with enough guns to empty clips down every last Serbian throat.

“The exits?” I ask.

“Barred.”

“Their boats?”

“Burned.”

Finally, I let myself indulge in a grin. It’s been a good fucking day already. And it’s about to get even better. “Alright then,” I say. “Give the order to move in.”

Feliks murmurs into the radio clipped to his tactical vest.

Then the shadows descend on The Odyssey.

We move in tandem, boots silent on the gangplank. Nearly a hundred of my best killers, all thirsting for Serbian blood. This will be over quickly.

The first sentry dies with a knife in his trachea. The second barely turns before two silenced bullets rearrange his face.

Chaos blooms slowly, then all at once. By the time we hit the casino doors, the Serbs are scrambling. Dice and poker chips scatter as Dragan’s lieutenants reach for weapons. A blonde in a sequin dress screams, champagne flute shattering.

I put a round between her companion’s eyes. “Dragan! Come out, come out…”

He emerges from the VIP lounge, face a rictus of rage. Our last meeting wasn’t kind to him—the bruises remain jarring and purple. But those piggish eyes still glint with the same cruelty that once made Jasmine tremble.

“Ozerov.” He spits at my feet. “Here to finish stealing my wives and my city?”

I smile. “Just the city.”

Gunfire erupts.

It’s not a fight. It’s a culling.

They’re soft, these Serbs. My Bratva? We’re wolves raised on broken glass and winter winds. Before I can give Dragan the death he deserves, a bald giant charges me. I sidestep and elbow his spine into splinters. Twin brothers fire Uzis blindly. I drop them with headshots so perfectly synced, their corpses collapse in unison.

But Dragan is elusive.

He takes advantage of my distraction to turn and run through a steel door, barring it behind him. It takes a few of my men with blowtorches to melt it open. By the time we’re through, he’s at the far end of a long hallway. The bullets we fire after him do nothing but score the metalwork. All that remains is his voice, floating down toward me, as he barks orders into his phone.

“… the helicopter, budala! Now, now!”

Slippery fucking mudak. I charge after him, followed by dozens of my men. We’re too late, though. The helicopter is already lifting off when we burst out on the top of the bridge.

I stand beneath the downward draft and watch as that black bird lifts up and away. Dragan’s face is pressed against the window, sneering at me.

I don’t bother firing after him. I’d rather save my bullets for when I can press the barrel of my gun between his eyes and unload.

But I do watch as he goes. Until the chopper disappears into the smog over New Jersey, I keep my eyes locked on it.

Feliks joins me a few minutes later. Dusk is settling now, and sunset over the city has never looked more beautiful. “Anyone left?” I ask him.

He laughs. “As if I’d be that nice.”

I nod in grim satisfaction. In some ways, it’s a blessing that Dragan got away. Death is a mercy. This? A king stripped of crown, country, purpose? That’s poetic justice. Besides, his death will come soon enough. When it does, I’ll make sure I send him off in proper style.

I gaze at the Manhattan skyline. It’s been a long time in the making—fifteen agonizing years—but now, I’m so close to achieving everything I’ve ever wanted.

I set out to call it my city. Who can deny that that’s now exactly what it is? With the Serbs gutted and Leander’s ports under my control, just as soon as I put that ring on Ariel’s finger? It’s over. It’s finished.

I.

Fucking.

Win.