Ivan: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 1)
Ivan: Chapter 22

I don’t take any weapons, not even a knife.

It’s pointless, when I know Remizov will have me searched before I get within fifty feet of him.

I do take a flash drive. It’s not Remizov’s flash drive, of course—that one is still in Moscow. But it looks very similar. Close enough to fool him for a minute, I hope. I slip it into my pocket.

As I’m getting ready to go, my brother knocks on my door.

He knows I was supposed to pick up Sloane at the train station. He saw me arrive back home without her.

Seeing my clothes and the expression on my face, he guesses at once what I’m about to do.

“You can’t be serious,” Dom says.

“I’m going, and I’m going alone,” I tell him.

“Ivan. This is madness.”

“It’s pointless to talk about it. My mind is made up.”

I’m lacing my shoes, avoiding looking at my brother. But I can see him standing in the doorway, his face looking pale next to his blond hair, his arms folded across his chest.

“Is this because of Karol?” he asks.

I look sharply up at him.

“No,” I say. “It’s not because of Karol. I can’t let Remizov hurt Sloane.”

“But he is going to hurt her,” Dom says, his lips white with anger and fear. “He’s going to kill her and you as well. This isn’t a rescue mission, it’s suicide. At the very least, I’m coming with you, and the rest of the—“

“No!” I cut across him. “As soon as we drive up, he’ll kill her. He told me to come by myself.”

“I’m not going to let you do that,” Dom says.

He’s definitely blocking the doorway. He’s standing with his legs apart, determined not to let me pass.

I stand up so we’re eye to eye, not a centimeter’s difference between our heights. I’ve never hit my brother before, outside of training. But I’ll hit him now, if he tries to stand in my way.

“I’m still in charge here,” I tell him.

“I know you are,” Dom says, his blue eyes darker than usual. “I’ll follow you anywhere, brother. But I won’t let you go to your death alone.”

The time is ticking away. I told Remizov I would be at his place in an hour. If it comes down to a fight with Dominik, I think I’ll win. But I might seriously hurt him. And I’ll be worn out before I even leave, besides being late.

Taking him is not an option. I’m well aware that my chances of returning home again are minuscule. I’ll need Dom to take over for me here. He’s the only one who can.

So he can’t come with me.

It’s not happening.

Unless . . .

I’m thinking fast, remembering who else we have in the house right now.

“You can come,” I say to my brother. “But just you. And Zima.”

“Zima?” Dom says in surprise.

“Go get him,” I say. “Ask him if he’ll help us with something.”

Dom looks at me suspiciously, like he thinks I’m going to try to sneak away while he’s retrieving Zima from the TV room.

“I’ll wait right here,” I promise him.

Dom nods and disappears down the hallway.

Sooner than I dared hope, he returns with Zima slouching along behind him. Zima’s light brown hair looks messier than ever, but at least he’s been showering since he came here, and we got him some new clothes.

“You need something, boss?” he says.

I know he’s only calling me that because everybody else does. His tone is mildly mocking. But I hope he means it too, in his own way.

“You know Remizov’s house?” I say to Zima.

“Yeah.”

“Do you think you could hack into his system?”

Zima shrugs.

“I could try.”

We drive in separate cars. I tell Dom five times over that he’s got to wait at least twenty minutes to even leave the compound, and he’s got to drive the long way round. If Remizov’s men are watching this place, if they have the slightest clue I’m not coming alone, it will all be for nothing.

Dom agrees, though I can tell he doesn’t want to.

He takes Zima with him, and they wait in Dom’s GLK while I pull out alone in my Hummer.

As I drive to Remizov’s house, I don’t feel any fear for myself.

My concern is all for Sloane. I doubt she went quietly when they grabbed her in Moscow. I should have made Remizov put her on the phone, to make sure he hasn’t hurt her.

But I don’t think that’s his way. He won’t risk killing either of us until he has the flash drive safe in hand. After that, all bets are off.

It’s only about a twenty-minute drive to Krestovsky.

How strange that we’ve been living so close to each other all this time.

I don’t know Remizov at all. We have no relationship, no history, for good or for ill. Yet I hate him more than anyone I’ve known, for the callous way he murdered Karol, and for his audacity in thinking he can take what belongs to me and the other Bratva of St. Petersburg. What our families have built over two hundred years, he thinks he can claw away from us in the space of a few months.

He thinks we’ll make deals with him. Agree to serve under him.

Maybe some of the Bratva have done it, but I never will.

I’d rather be dead than on my knees.

Would you rather see Sloane dead, though?

That’s a more difficult question.

That’s the problem with caring about someone. No logic, no ideals can withstand the imperative of keeping that person safe.

I’ve only known Sloane a short time, but I do know her. I know exactly who she is, what she’s capable of. And I want her to be mine.

I have a vision of the two of us at the head of the Petrov family. Equals and partners. Building an empire that makes Remizov’s ambitions look like nothing more than a fever dream.

I can see it so clearly, what Sloane and I could achieve together. So clearly that even though I know I’m supposed to be walking into certain death, I can’t believe that what I’m imagining won’t come to pass.

After all these years of living in a monastery, I’ve finally found faith in something.

This girl who tried to kill me, and instead, brought me new life.

I’m almost happy as I pull through the gates to Remizov’s house.

Because I’m about to see Sloane again.

I’d rather die next to her than live without her.

I park my car and walk toward the front steps.

In my peripheral view, I see half a dozen guards patrolling the grounds, with several more stationed around the front door. I’m sure Remizov has all hands on deck tonight, in case I disobeyed his order and brought all my men with me.

I hold up my empty hands as I approach the door.

Still, two of his guards search me so thoroughly that I couldn’t have smuggled a pencil inside the house.

When they’re satisfied that I came unarmed, they lead me inside.

Remizov’s house is large and modern, relentlessly masculine in its colors and aesthetic. The rooms are spotlessly clean, smelling of cleaning products and little else.

It seems like he lives here alone, other than his men on their rotating shifts. I wonder if he gets any pleasure out of the vast, opulent rooms, the art on the walls, the cars in his garage, or if he’s simply driven by instinct to collect and expand, like a dragon with its hoard.

I could ask him.

His guards lead me to a set of double doors. There’s another pair of goons guarding the doors. I immediately dislike the look of the one on the right. He’s built like a tank, with short cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. He has a broad jaw, a cleft chin—and a conceited smirk that I want to wipe off his face with my fist.

He makes an exaggerated show of opening the door for me, but then stands in such a way that we knock shoulders as I walk through the opening.

I want to wheel around and throttle him. But I can’t spare a second on him or anyone else. I need to see Sloane.

I don’t have to wait long.

She’s sitting in the dining room across from Remizov himself. As soon as I enter, she leaps to her feet.

She’s never looked more beautiful than she does in this moment. She’s wearing a deep red gown that shows her long, slender neck, the smooth skin of her shoulders, and the tops of her breasts. Her black curls are wild around her face, trailing down her back. Her eyes are brilliant, full of hope and excitement at the sight of me. She’s smiling—despite everything, she’s smiling. She calls out my name.

I want to run over to her, touch her face, make sure she’s alright. I want to kiss her. But I’ve already made a mistake, letting Remizov see my pleasure and relief at the sight of her. I meant to stay calm and cold.

He’s sitting across the table from Sloane, watching us. He hasn’t gotten up as I enter. He’s wearing a formal jacket, his hair combed back. The table is set as if they’re on a date.

I wanted to take Sloane for dinner tonight. This fucking animal is eating and drinking with her instead. He really does want to take everything from me.

The only thing amiss in this little tableau is the glass toppled over on its side, the wine spilled across the table. Sloane is the furthest thing from clumsy. I scan her once more, to make sure nothing has happened to her yet. I notice that her left wrist is red, with four distinct fingerprints marking the flesh. I feel a spark of rage.

Sloane sees my worry, my anger. She doesn’t care what Remizov thinks. She intends to run over to me at once. But quick as a snake, Remizov reaches across the table and grabs her wrist once more.

“You stay with me,” he hisses.

He pulls her around the table so we’re all standing facing each other on the same side—Remizov with Sloane, and me surrounded by the three goons who have followed me inside, including the one who shoulder-checked me. He’s standing closest of all, practically breathing down my neck.

One of the guards has an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. The other two wear guns at their hips. None of the weapons are drawn and pointed at me yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

Remizov is standing directly next to Sloane, one hand still gripping her wrist, and the other around her waist. I can see her shudder of revulsion as he puts his arm around her. Remizov doesn’t seem to care. In fact, I’m quite sure he likes it.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” he says softly. “I dressed her this way to remind you what’s at stake, Ivan.”

“No reminder needed,” I say. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Let’s proceed, then,” Remizov says, dropping the smile. “Give me the drive.”

“Let Sloane go first,” I say.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Remizov snaps. “You have no leverage. She’s not going anywhere. Hand it over now.”

I had hoped to stall a little longer. Give Dom and Zima time to catch up to me, and hopefully to work a little magic.

Remizov has about as much patience as he has charm, however.

I take the flash drive out of my pocket.

The smirking guard snatches it out of my hand and carries it over to Remizov.

For a single moment his face is alight with satisfaction, but almost as soon as the drive touches his palm, he throws it down in disgust.

“That is not my flash drive,” he says. If I thought his voice was cold before, it’s now turned to pure ice.

“Yes, it is,” I say stupidly.

I hoped he’d at least check on his computer.

Remizov gives a nod to the smirking guard. He takes his gun from his belt and hits me across the back of the head with the barrel.

The pain is instant and blinding. I sink to my knees. The guard hits me again, right across the jaw, this time with his fist.

I go down hard, my head hitting the floor.

I hear Sloane scream. I assume she tried to run over to me, but Remizov kept hold of her. I hear a scuffle and a sharp slap as he hits her across the face.

That’s what keeps me conscious. My rage at the sound of that blow.

I’m back on my feet again, my head throbbing, but my vision swiftly clearing. I can see the mark on Sloane’s cheek where Remizov struck her. I would be barreling across the room toward him if I weren’t being held in place by the two guards gripping my arms.

“Where’s the drive?” Remizov says.

“I thought that was it,” I say stupidly. “That’s the only one we have.”

It’s a pathetic lie. Not convincing in the slightest.

Grinning harder than ever, the guard balls up his fist and hits me again, in the face, and then in the stomach. I double over, dropping to my knees once more, trying not to retch. I’ve been punched plenty of times before, but this guy feels like he’s made out of granite. Each blow hits me like a sledgehammer.

“Stop!” Sloane screams.

“We can stop any time you want,” Remizov says.

“He doesn’t have the drive,” Sloane cries.

I try to tell her not to say any more, but I haven’t got my breath back yet from the blow to the stomach. I’m still gasping and wheezing.

“Where is it?” Remizov says.

“It’s in Moscow,” Sloane tells him.

“Where?”

“I gave it away. To a journalist.”

There’s dead quiet in the room as this information sinks in to everyone present.

“A journalist?” Remizov says.

“Yes,” Sloane says. “She’s going to publish it all.”

For the first time, Remizov looks truly angry. His pale eyes become watery with rage, and his thin lips quiver.

But his voice is still flat as he says, “Then it appears the two of you have no use to me anymore.”

He looks over at the smirking guard, surely to give the order to shoot us both.

Before he can open his mouth to speak, the lights go out, and the room is plunged into darkness.