Wrath (The Deadly Seven Book 3)

by Lana Pecherczyk

  Inside the quiet, insulated confines of his helmet, suspicions grew louder.

  When Misha walked out from the train platform and onto the street, he waited. He watched. Like a creepy stalker, he tracked her as she moved down the street until she got to a large black door with an enormous bouncer manning the stoop. The guy must be on steroids. Muscles barely fit into his suit. Those kind of muscles made a man slow. He’d be no match for Wyatt, not now, not ever.

  When Misha disappeared inside, Wyatt finally looked up at the sign over the doorway. The Kremlin Nightclub. With a growing sense of urgency, he took his helmet off and scanned the rest of the street. He was in a seedy end of town. Bars, nightclubs… strip-clubs… dirty streets, unsavory looking people. As Wyatt left Betty parked on the road side, he caught the eyes of two scrawny, toothless men eyeing her off. Fuck no.

  Without a second thought, Wyatt strode up to them and hit one in the chest with his palm. The guy fell back onto his ass. Wyatt used two fingers to point at his own eyes, then back at the men, and at Betty. Mess with Betty, and I fuck you up.

  “Shit man,” said the man still standing, scrambling to get away. “We ain’t done nuthin’.”

  Keep it that way.

  Grinding his teeth with pent up frustration, Wyatt went to the bar across the road from the Kremlin, ordered a drink and sat down at a table where he could watch both Betty and the club. As dusk fell, and the bar got rowdier, Wyatt held his position.

  What the fuck was that place? Why was Misha working there? Why did she hide it from her family, but not her best friend?

  So many questions curdled his mind. He tried to research the place on his cell but the shitty reception wouldn’t allow him to open a browser. Wyatt deeply missed his sister Sloan’s tech hacking skills at that point. He was sure she’d get more information. All he needed to do was call her. But he didn’t.

  Wyatt hadn’t touched his drink, but smelled like a brewery. At one point, the bar had gotten so crowded that people stood next to him chatting and shouting at each other, spilling beer all over him. It took all his restraint not to smash the faces of some frat boys who’d come staggering into the bar after being kicked out of the club. They were sneering and mooning drunkenly over the best pair of tits and ass they’d ever seen. Apparently one of them had gotten handsy until a white-robed and masked freak had almost chopped his hands off with a “fucking samurai sword”.

  As the night went on, it was clear most of the clientele in the nightclub were men, and that made every nerve in Wyatt pull tight.

  Misha hadn’t reappeared.

  Still working.

  At The Kremlin. Where only men went.

  Misha worked in a strip club and, apparently, the Syndicate’s foot soldiers were the bouncers.

  After the knowledge hit him, he got stuck. He sat there nursing his beer, watching the club until closing time. He wasn’t done, though, and there was nowhere else to go that he could continue surveillance without drawing attention. It was either go in, or…

  Wyatt left a tip on the bar and left. He checked on Betty’s safety and then went down a side alley. Once he was sure no one watched, he skirted a drain pipe and climbed to the roof. The bar was only one story and had a flat roof. There was a sign facing the road. Perfect place to sit under and continue his recon. Fuck, he knew he was skirting stalker territory, but he couldn’t deal with the fact she was in there doing God knew what, under the watchful eye of not only the Bratva but the Syndicate too.

  Every alarm in his body sounded.

  He hardly knew her. Maybe she had no idea who the Syndicate were. Not many people knew because the Syndicate were all about subterfuge, about knocking the legs from under you without you knowing they’d been there. They’d planted Sara in his life for years and he knew nothing until it was too late. He hadn’t even known she was Syndicate when she died the first time. He’d mourned that fucking bitch like the love of his life. It still hurt to think about. But it hurt more to think that right up until the end, until she took her last breath, he’d hoped she would somehow make things right.

  With Sara, there was a duty. What he felt for Misha wasn’t duty. It was raw need. But what if the Syndicate planted her too?

  Every night for the next eight days, Wyatt returned to The Kremlin and watched from the roof across the street. Misha arrived like clockwork at four in the afternoon. She left at three in the morning, tired and on her own. She usually wore a jacket leaving, but only her yoga attire arriving. Each night, Wyatt followed her to the train station, making sure she arrived safe—that was what he told himself—because a woman walking on her own in that neighborhood at night wasn’t a good thing. What was she thinking?

  Did she have a death wish?

  Her words from the night of the fire came back to him.

  It was supposed to be me first, Wyatt. Not them. I can’t be the one left picking up the pieces again.

  Perhaps she did want to die.

  Sara had wanted to die. She’d made a deal with the Syndicate for them to bring her back as one of their freaky clones. They’d promised her they would fix her heart disease, and so Sara had killed herself in the bomb explosion that tarnished the Deadly Seven’s name and caused a rift between Wyatt and Evan. She gave the term suicide bomber a new meaning. Was it really suicide if you came back as a cloned replicate?

  Too many of Wyatt’s buttons were being pushed with Misha’s circumstances. Why couldn’t she be a goddamned teacher in suburbia, or something equally innocent and boring? Something that would have absolutely no ties to an organized criminal group like the Bratva, or the Syndicate.

  Because this is the world you live in, dickhead. It was full of unsavory shit and selfish people. It was why Wyatt and his siblings were created.

  Every night, after seeing Misha to her city home, Wyatt returned to his borrowed apartment in the burbs, and knew the family had no idea of her second job. With the restaurant gone, she shouldn’t be beholden to anyone. There was more to the story, or she was working with them.

  On the ninth night, Wyatt knew he couldn’t stay in the borrowed apartment any longer. It had grown awkward without his job at the kitchen and worse with every passing day Misha failed to return to the suburban home. She avoided both him and her family. Coupled with the fact that numerous Lazarus family members had been calling him, leaving messages and texting, meant he was due to return to the family fold. Part of him was excited, part was afraid, but for the most part, he knew it was time.

  He had to do a few things first.

  He handed the Minski family a check to replace the damaged furniture in his room. They tried to refuse him, but he insisted, and when he put his chef-face on, people tended to do as expected. They were sorry to see him go, but he exchanged numbers with Alek and Roksana. He told them to call if they needed anything. Anything at all.

  Then Wyatt headed to The Kremlin. This time, he was going as a patron.

  Seventeen

  It had been just over a week since Misha had last seen Wyatt, and despite trying to convince herself that he was no one to her, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Even now, walking to work through the almost fresh air of Cardinal City, she still had the scent of him seared into her memory. It was as though he stood right next to her.

  But she didn’t do relationships for one simple reason—people leave. Whether it’s her or him, inevitably one of them would go first, and the other would be left picking up the pieces of their broken heart. When Misha’s mother died suddenly, it had almost destroyed her father. Misha was nine at the time, and she remembered a lot. When it became clear Alek was deaf, her father struggled even more. There were many nights she’d see him crying softly to himself with a glass of vodka slipping in his hands. Without his one true love there to help him raise a family, Misha had picked up the slack. Like her mother had always said, she was the protector of the family, the one they called when the going got tough.

  Alek had texted yesterday to say Wyatt continued to sta
y at the garage apartment. In fact, he’d been teaching Alek self-defense tactics.

  Why, was her first thought. Who were they to him?

  It had been easy to say goodbye to Wyatt when she knew he was leaving, but knowing he stuck around and helped her baby brother… a tightness in her chest followed her daily.

  Yuri guarded the entrance to The Kremlin as usual, and as she’d done each day since her beating, she gave him little acknowledgment beyond eye contact as she entered. This time, Yuri halted her with a meaty hand to the shoulder. Misha tensed and clutched her bag.

  “Please, lapochka, when will you speak to me?” Yuri asked.

  Misha could hear the pain in his voice, but it didn’t matter. “I have no words for men who beat me.”

  “I was only following orders. If it was not me, it would have been someone else who hurt you worse.”

  “So, I’m to thank you?”

  “Nyet. But, you see there was no choice.”

  “You once said that you would be with me if I agreed to more than one night. What if I had agreed and we were together? What then? Would you still have followed orders?”

  Yuri grit his teeth, jaw tendons popping. He had no answer.

  “See?” Misha continued. “Relationships mess everything up. It’s better this way. At least we know where we stand.”

  Misha didn’t want anything to do with any of them, least of all Dimitri, but after he’d texted her the night of the fire, demanding she return to work the following day, she feared for her family’s life. Worse—he had threatened to bring Roksana in to replace her if she didn’t return.

  She knew deep down that Dimitri wanted her, not Roksana. As long as she turned up, did whatever he said, his people would see he had control over her, and he would leave her family alone. Well, that’s what she assumed. She hadn’t seen Dimitri all week. He’d been too busy running around with his new friends, the white-robed ones with Halloween masks.

  An air of excitement, danger and fear that went beyond the usual drugs, sex and violence, was present in the club. It was volatile. Dancers had gone missing. Problem customers had too. It was as though anyone daring to speak out of line just disappeared.

  Misha walked deeper into the dark club, hugging her bag to her chest. Dimitri now had an army of soldiers in masks ready to do his dirty bidding. It was obvious even Yuri felt uncomfortable about doing things he never thought he’d do—like assaulting his lapochka.

  For the staff of The Kremlin, Misha’s beating and restaurant destruction had served as a warning. If Dimitri could do that to his one and only friend, then he would do that to anyone. Debtors fearfully fell in line, and Dimitri’s influence was growing. All Misha could do was to try to find a positive in the negative, just like her aunt had taught her.

  Following that piece of advice was getting harder every day.

  When she made it to the dressing room, she rested her palm on the closed door and took a deep breath. Unsure what or who she would find inside today, she hesitated. A few nights ago, Chyna had gone missing. She’d been requested for a private party and never returned. Every night since, Misha prayed she would be in there, applying her cat’s eye makeup, teasing her hair with an afro comb. She pressed open the door.

  “Namaste, ladies.” Misha forced a bright smile on her face as she waltzed in.

  The room smelled like soured perfume, spilled alcohol and stale smoke. That lump in Misha’s throat expanded. No Chyna.

  Anastasia and the Russian twins, Katarina and Dominika were silently applying their costumes. A new skinny girl dabbed blue eyeliner onto the bottom rim of her red, sunken eyelid. When her eyes rolled back, she blinked purposefully in an attempt to focus and gain her wits. Junkie. The track marks on the insides of her elbow confirmed. How sad.

  “No word on Chyna?” she asked quietly, shoving her bag into her locker.

  With cameras and microphones in the room, none of the girls answered, but Anastasia gave a crisp shake of the head. Before she shut the door on her locker, Misha closed her eyes and centered herself.

  I have two arms, two legs. I’m healthy. My family is healthy. My family is safe. Inhale the future, exhale the past.

  Then she shut the metal door with a loud clang.

  “Right, then darlings. Who am I today?” She clapped her hands together. No word from Dimitri meant she got to pick her costume, and that was a positive.

  Katarina, the twin with the mole over her lip, turned to Misha and sighed. “I am in no mood for games today.”

  “Now, now, darling. That’s no way to speak. We have a job to do, and a show to put on. Come on. Who am I?”

  “You are the Duchess, no?”

  “Ding ding ding. Two points to the better looking twin.” Misha clapped, laughing. A reluctant smile twitched on Katarina’s lips.

  Dominika rolled her eyes. “We all know who is better looking because I get more tips.”

  Then they went round-robin and tried to guess who each girl was going to be. They were subdued, and down, but they liked this game. It was the only way Misha could get them all amped and ready to go out. It hadn’t always been like this. Hell, sometimes dancing was fun, and Misha got to keep all of her tips, but lately, it was like working at a funeral parlor.

  She spent the next few minutes shimmying into her outfit. A black string bikini with a dental floss thong. A tiny peach colored skirt and matching jacket that barely contained her breasts. She wore a string of pearls around her throat, and black high-heeled pumps. At the last minute, she applied a feather fascinator to her chignon, rounding out the tarty English Duchess look.

  Five minutes later, the thump of music vibrated through the walls. The club was open. More women crowded into the room. A few waitresses and dancers Misha had never met before.

  As Misha finished her makeup, a knock at the door made everyone still.

  The only people who knocked were the men.

  Followed by two muscly guards, Dimitri gave the girls a once over. “You are all ready for tonight, da?”

  Nods all around the room.

  Then Dimitri’s eyes landed on Misha and her blood froze.

  “Everybody, out.” He gave a negligent flick of his fingers toward the door.

  Scrambling like ants, the room emptied. She watched helplessly as the bouncer shut the door, leaving Misha alone with Dimitri.

  But she wouldn’t be cowered. Like a proper duchess, Misha folded her hands and rested them on her lap. She held her chin high.

  Dimitri adjusted the gold cufflinks on his maroon pin-striped suit. He cut a dashing figure. Dark, slim. Eyes like a shark. He inhaled deeply and sighed. “It pleases me to see you have followed orders.”

  “I really have no choice, darling.”

  He squinted at her term of endearment. It was all part of her show, of her carefully constructed persona. Let him think it was meant for him. It was more like armor for herself. If she was the Duchess, then she wasn’t herself. And she wasn’t afraid.

  “Then it will please me more to see you working the VIP room tonight.”

  Her mouth went dry.

  “We have an important guest. He will need much attention.” Death shrouded his gaze. “Misha, we have been through much, have we not?”

  She inclined her head in agreement.

  He casually closed the gap between them and wrapped his cold fingers around her throat. He applied only soft pressure, but the intent was there. He could crush her, and nobody would say a word. Just like Chyna, she would disappear.

  “I will not tolerate more dissent from you.” Dimitri leaned in until his breath hit her cheek. “You make me look weak in front of my men, and everyone suffers because of it. The next time you refuse me, you will not be so lucky. Your family will not be so lucky. Am I making myself clear?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to threaten him back, to say, stay away from her family. He must have seen the opposition in her eyes because his brightened with fury and he leaned into her, tightening his grip ar
ound her throat.

  “I lit the fire myself,” he taunted. “And I would do it again. I would make you watch this time and listen to their screams.”

  She choked, her airways blocked. Bastard!

  “You and I, Misha. We are intertwined beyond death. There are no lengths I won’t go to keep you compliant and in my debt. Remember that next time you seek help to be rid of me.”

  He let go and stood back, eyeing her curiously as she heaved in deep breaths. She rubbed her throat, wondering why the hell he cared so much about keeping her under his thumb. Was it really all because she reminded him of a time he was weak and fragile?

  “So, now we are in agreement, I believe you are up first on the main stage. Then I expect to see you in the VIP room for the remainder of the night, da?”

  When Dimitri opened the door to leave, Misha caught sight of another woman out there. A woman with long, pale silvery hair. Hauntingly beautiful. And what’s worse, she met Misha’s eyes briefly as she walked away with Dimitri. Her gaze was almost… knowing. In that moment, Misha was more afraid than she’d ever been in her life.

  Eighteen

  Wyatt walked up to the entrance of The Kremlin where a big bouncer stopped him with a palm to the chest. The man was larger than Wyatt, had more bulk. He sized Wyatt up. Probably thought he could take Wyatt. Let him. See what happened.

  “You look like man who make trouble.” The bouncer had a thick Russian accent. No surprise there but, shit. Wyatt had done his best to look unassuming, and still he got singled out. He’d even bought a new collared Polo shirt that was a color other than black. Coupled with hair gel, fashionable jeans and a fucking sports coat, he looked like a dickhead, but hopefully the kind you didn’t look twice at. Attracting attention was not on his agenda. He needed to be armed with the truth before returning to his family. There was no way he’d be stuck in the cold with his dick in his hand again. He had to know everything about her.