Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

“I thought you’d be at lunch with Daphne and Mama.”

Sofi makes sure the door to my office is locked before she settles into the chair facing my desk. “We already had lunch. Mama is taking her shopping for baby clothes and more toys.”

I frown. “Daphne has work today. Why isn’t she going back to work?”

The way my sister drums her fingers on the arm of the chair sets me on edge. Whatever update she’s sitting on, it’s not good.

“You’re not gonna like it,” she confirms.

“Just fucking tell me.”

“Ewing stopped by the gallery.”

She was right: I do not like it.

“And?”

“And you don’t need to freak out; I already took care of it. I just thought you should know because Daph seemed a little pale during lunch, and the last thing she needs right now is for you to go all silverback gorilla on her⁠—”

“Tell me what happened.”

Sofi sighs. “He assaulted her. In the showroom.”

My chair tumbles to the floor. I think I throw my desk to the side, or at least I try to, because it’s a loud series of crashes and shit breaking en route to my office door.

“I just told you not to freak out!” Sofi grabs my arm and drags me back before I go barreling out into the building. “Sit down before you break anything else.”

“I’ll fucking break his fucking face. Goddammit, I knew I should’ve made him disappear a lot sooner.”

She doubles down on her grips on my forearm and I reluctantly go still. “Be that as it may, you’ve got a lot of cogs in the machinery you need to pay attention to. Like the mother of your child, who is pretty shaken by the encounter.”

Fuck. Daphne. Is she okay? “Why the hell didn’t she call me? What the fuck was she doing alone with that weasel?”

“Whoa. Pause. One thing at a time. First things first, we need to dial back the anger with Daphne.”

“I’m not mad at Daphne.”

“No? So the yelling and accusing is your way of comforting her?”

If looks could kill, my little sister would still laugh in my face and tell me to try again. “I’m not mad. I’m… frustrated. She should trust me. She should have me on speed dial for situations like this.”

“She will. She’s just not there yet. Tell me: in all the times you two have talked, and in all the surveillance you’ve done on her—when has she ever indicated she’s used to being taken care of?”

I suck air through my gritted teeth. She’s right. I’m not going to say that out loud, but I’m pretty sure she can see it in the way I slump back in my chair.

Daphne’s little flinches in response to any sort of kindness are proof in the pudding. She’s never been cared for. Or protected. Hell, I don’t know if she’s ever experienced love. The kind where we look out for each other against all odds—and all enemies.

It’s the biggest wall between us. I want to take care of her—she just won’t let me. I want to take over so she can relax and enjoy life, but she’s got such an iron-fisted grip on everything in her world.

As if she’s waiting for someone to take it all from her.

I’ve long wondered who would ever dare to try. It sounds like I have a good chunk of the answer.

“I promise, I will be patient with Daphne.” I tap a finger on my chair. “After we visit this ex.”

Sofi’s face breaks into a mischievous grin. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The door flies off the hinges almost too easily.

“Knock-knock!” Sofi calls into the apartment as she steps over the splinters.

I’m following her into Ewing’s home when I see her suddenly freeze at the opening to his living room. When I look over her shoulder, I see why.

Holy shit.

It’s… something. Something from a nightmare, more specifically.

A huge canvas, large enough to almost cover one wall, surrounded by dozens of lit candles. It’s not just a painting of Daphne—it’s an eerily accurate painting of a very naked Daphne, as if she’s posed just for him. It’s half-finished, but it’s enough.

Soft music fills the air. Silken sheets cover the floor, with rose petals scattered everywhere like Ewing was preparing for a seductive date.

With… himself. Apparently.

That’s the other half of the image I did not need to ever see in my lifetime: Sidney Conrad Ewing, completely naked, glistening with oil. On his knees before the painting of Daphne, head thrown back in loud moans of pleasure mixed with rapture.

While his fist goes to town on his dick.

To think I was even considering letting him live.

I grab him and throw him against one of the bare walls. “What the fuck are you doing?” I know I don’t want the actual answer to that question. Hell, I don’t want to ask him shit because he’s still too… excited… to think straight.

“I don’t have anything!” Conrad squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t have anything of value!”

“Understatement of the year,” Sofi mumbles as she looks around the room. “This place is a dump.”

I don’t have the time or the patience to play games with him. “I’m here about Daphne.”

“Daphne? I haven’t seen her in months! I swear!”

Sofi turns around to stroll up to him, arms folded. “You sure about that?”

Ewing visibly pales. “Okay. So I just saw her today. It’s her job! I have a showing there! Besides, I’m getting married⁠—”

“Exactly.” It is taking every ounce of self-control to not bash his face in. “So you have no business, professional or otherwise, coming anywhere near my wife.”

“‘Wife’?!” He sputters and stares at me like I’ve grown two new heads. “I never saw a ring!”

My arm is at his throat before I can even register the amount of fury now boiling in my veins. “So you noticed that, huh?” I press harder. If he chokes to death on his own blood, it will be the better part of my day. “Was that before or after you noticed she’s pregnant with my child?”

All the fight is gone from Ewing. He sags against the wall; if I wasn’t so hellbent on strangling him, he’d probably fall to the floor. Tears spill from his eyes and he starts to sob.

Oh, for fuck’s sake…

“You were never enough for Daphne,” I snarl in his face. “And you never will be enough for her. Or for anyone, you pathetic excuse of a man. Your art is trash, your behavior is trash, you are trash. And you dared to think yourself worthy to touch my wife.”

An idea springs to mind.

“Hey, Sofi?” I call over my shoulder. “Which hand does our friend here use?”

She’s silent while she types in the search on her phone. Then: “According to this wiki, Sidney Conrad Ewing is right-handed.”

“Perfect.”

His terrified protests and pleas fall on deaf ears. I can only think of one thing, and that’s how his grubby, slimy hands laid a finger on my beautiful plamya. Mine.

Let’s make sure he never does it again.

I yank him hard over to the table, slam his right wrist down, and hold my free hand out. Sofi places a hammer in it—one of those large, heavy motherfuckers they use for sculpting. Then she moves behind him and forces a gag into his mouth.

I don’t know what satisfies me more: the way his screams pitch so high he goes silent, or the way his bones crunch under the first blow of the hammer.

The second and third blows are pretty satisfying, too.

By the time I’m done, what used to be his artistic hand is nothing more than a skin sack filled with shattered bone.

Ewing is just this side of passing out. His eyes have rolled back in his head, and he’s pissed himself. Thankfully, none of it got on my shoes, or I’d be moving on to his other hand, too.

“Good luck with your paintings now, asshole.” I toss the hammer aside and enjoy the way he cringes when it clatters on the floor.

With a nod to Sofi, we leave Ewing there at the table. Sobbing, dry-heaving, kneeling in a puddle of his own piss as he stares in horror at his mangled hand.

“Did you call it in?” I ask Sofi once we’re back in the elevator.

She nods. “Paramedics are on their way.”

I nod and stare at the sliding doors. One loose end taken care of.

Now, it’s time to have a chat with my wife.