Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

I should be heading home. I texted Daphne an hour ago to tell her I’d be there for dinner.

But that was before Mak called with updates on Brennan.

“Guess who’s been having lunch with the senator?” He texted a few photos to me to answer his own question. “We have it on good authority that they’re going out with him and Mrs. Brennan for dinner and drinks tonight.”

I nearly snapped the steering wheel in half.

“Keep them busy,” I snarled. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”

I should send someone else to do the dirty work for me. One phone call could have me home in time for dinner while someone else wreaks havoc on my behalf.

But when the gates to the Hamish estate appear in my headlights, I know I can’t pass this off to anyone else.

I need to spill this blood with my own two hands.

I do text Daphne my apologies. Something came up. I’m going to be late. Don’t wait for me.

Then I pop the glove compartment open and grab my favorite pair of leather gloves. The lug wrench is just heavy enough to do some damage without leaving a trace.

I’m about to leave the car when my phone buzzes.

DAPHNE: So it begins

I frown. What?

DAPHNE: You being out late. Business to attend to

DAPHNE: I’ve seen the movies

DAPHNE: I did my homework

DAPHNE: Just remember to leave the gun and take the cannoli

One corner of my mouth tips into a smirk. I’m tempted to remind her that Italians and Russians are night and day. But I don’t want to ruin her fun.

PASHA: I’ll bring one home for you.

As much as I’d love to banter with her all night long, I have a job to do. So I put my phone on silent and shove it in my pocket.

Then I get started.

I’m sure, at one point, the security around the Hamish estate was impeccable. I vaguely remember attending a few dinner parties here and seeing professional security detail patrolling the grounds. Back then, Stewart Hamish could afford it.

I would know—I wrote his paychecks.

Now, though, things have changed. The back door doesn’t have a keypad, so it’s easy work picking the lock and slipping inside. Whatever security system they once installed is no longer working.

The first swing of the tire iron busts open a glass display case showing off some knockoff antiquity they probably paid too much money for. My suspicions are confirmed when I pick the pottery up and find the sticker along the bottom.

Made in Vietnam. Pathetic.

I turn and hurl it into the decorative mirror on the far wall.

I’m not worried about seven years of bad luck. Associating with Stewart Hamish was already the worst luck in my entire life.

I wreak a path of destruction throughout the main floor of the house, venting all my anger and frustration and sense of betrayal into everything the Hamishes hold dear. I barely remember his wife, Ophelia, but what I do recall is how infuriating she was even when I thought I could trust Stewart. Always clutching her jewels, preening her self-absorbed sense of elitism.

Hell, she tried pimping off her daughters to me more than once. I refused each time, determined to avoid getting tangled up with a woman like… well, like that reptilian nightmare with false lashes.

Come to think of it, this place is missing something.

Children.

Pictures of them. Paintings of them. Evidence that Stewart and Ophelia had any to begin with.

I drag the wrench along the banister as I climb up to the second floor. If I remember correctly, Stewart’s office should be somewhere around here.

“Ohhh, Stewie!” I call out. “Where you at?”

I crash through each room to knock shit around. I play baseball with a set of crystal wine glasses in Stewart’s wet bar and toss his desk drawer contents around like it’s New Year’s confetti.

“Fuck with me once, shame on you. Fuck with me twice, you’re a dead man.”

We gave them everything. Money. Cars. Connections. Prestige.

In return, he got my father killed.

And now, they have the balls to turn Senator Brennan against me? To fuck with my contract?

“Dead” is the best they can hope for.

But luckily for them, they don’t seem to be home. Pity.

I come across a display of three Faberge eggs. Lining them up on Stewart’s desk, I smash them one by one, leaving a rainbow of shards arranged prettily across the wood. I toss my business card into the mix.

Subtlety is for the fucking birds.

I’ve done enough to convey my message, I think. But on my way down, a peek into a room has me stopping dead in my tracks.

The hell is a baby’s room doing here?

A baby girl, by the looks of it. Everything is bows and lace, hues of pink glimmering in the moonlight streaming through a far window. The crib is halfway assembled and there’s hardly any toys or basic supplies in the sparse storage, but it’s clear that someone is expecting.

It can’t be Ophelia. She’s way too old to be popping out babies now, and I doubt she has the time or patience to handle any.

Maybe it’s for their daughter, Melanie? She disappeared from the spotlight after I had her publicly ruined. It’s not a stretch to imagine she’s probably a single mother now, needing Mommy and Daddy’s help because she can’t stand on her own two feet.

Too bad, sweetheart. Mommy and Daddy won’t have any feet soon, either.

Something tugs at me. It feels an awful lot like guilt.

Maybe it’s the sight of the crib, not so different from the one I bought for my own baby girl. A daughter who could, at any time, fall victim to someone else’s fury just because she’s related to me.

I sigh. Smashing shit is losing its luster.

I pick up my phone and dial. “Hey, Sofi. Yeah. Do me a favor and find Melanie Hamish’s current address. I think it’s time to pay her a visit.”