Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

“I’ve got some bad news.”

When Myles utters those four little words, my first instinct is to imagine smashing his face with a hockey puck. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to shut him up. It’s becoming a familiar fantasy these days, because all my head of security seems to bring me lately is an endless parade of fuckery.

Myles has been more of a brother to me than my actual brother since our Dartmouth hockey days. But right now, all I see is another messenger I want to shoot.

He must sense my murderous thoughts, because he smooths a hand over his crew cut like he’s protecting his skull. “It’s about Lev Danovic.”

“Let me take a wild fucking guess.” I lean back in my chair, leather creaking beneath my weight, preparing to play a fun little game I call What The Fuck Else Can Go Wrong? “Since Danovic is the Litvinov Group’s biggest client, and you look like someone pissed in your protein shake, I’m betting those Andropov snakes are trying to steal my golden goose.”

“Ding ding ding.” Myles’s grimace tells me everything I need to know. “You win.”

Like fuck I do.

Lev Danovic isn’t just any client. He’s a Moscow oil titan with his fingers in every major pie from Russia to the States. The man single-handedly helped make me Chicago’s youngest billionaire. Losing him would be like losing a limb. A very profitable limb.

“According to my sources,” Myles continues, “he’s already taken two meetings with an Andropov rep. And…” He winces like the next words physically pain him. “… he’s accepted a third.”

Suddenly, the air in my top-floor office feels thin. If it were any other company trying to poach Danovic, I’d almost welcome the challenge.

But the Andropov Group isn’t just any rival.

They’re enemy number one.

These fuckers have been gunning for my destruction since before I had anything worth destroying. They fight dirty, they fight mean, and they never stop coming.

Fine by me. I wrote the book on fighting dirty.

But these motherfuckers are deluding themselves if they think they’ll take so much as a single scrap off my table.

“So he’s actually considering jumping ship.”

“We can’t be sure⁠—”

“Cut the bullshit, Myles,” I snap, ice coating every syllable. “Nobody takes three meetings unless they’re shopping for a new sugar daddy. Who’s their rep?”

Myles drums his fingers against his bouncing knee, a surefire sign that he has more unpleasant news to impart.

“I guess I should’ve led with this part, because it’s the actual bad news. The Lev thing was more of a setup to the punchline.”

“Myles… get to the fucking point.”

He sighs, reaching into his jacket. “Looks like they’ve got new talent on the payroll.” He slides a glossy photo across my desk.

I stare down at the grainy image.

And my blood curdles.

“Katerina.” Even her name on my tongue makes me sick to my fucking stomach. “Of course. It figures the bitch would continue finding new ways to ruin my life even after the divorce. She couldn’t destroy me from within, so she’s taking the scenic route to stick the knife in my back.”

“About that…” Myles pulls more photos from his jacket, spreading them across my desk.

I pick up the photo closest to me, another fuzzy image of my ex-wife, but this time, she’s sprawled across the ugly, wrought iron table of her rooftop garden…

With her legs wrapped around my brother’s head.

“Charming.” I toss the image back to the desktop with a wrinkled sneer. “But I don’t know why you think I care. Their sordid little soap opera lost its shock value a long time ago. As far as I’m concerned, they deserve each other. I say we leave them to it.”

“Or,” Myles suggests, “we hang them by their own rope. This shit is ammo, Sam. We can use it.”

I arch a brow. “Oh?”

He leans forward, his face flush with excitement. “We now have all the proof we need to bring to your father, Sam. Once we show him these pictures, he won’t be able to deny that not only is Katerina working for the enemy, but so is Ilya!”

I bark out a laugh that holds zero humor. “You don’t know Leonid Litvinov like I do. The only thing bigger than his ego is his blind spot when it comes to his precious youngest son.”

Myles gestures wildly at the pictures. “All you have to do is look⁠—”

“All these prove is that my brother’s fucking my ex-wife,” I cut him off. “Now that I’ve stripped Katerina of her shares in the Litvinov Group, she’s free to ride whatever carousel she wants—whether that’s the Andropov circus or my brother’s ugly face.”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“Ilya is my father’s pride and joy,” I remind Myles. “His golden boy. His second chance at fatherhood without all the messy baggage of a junkie first wife. He’s not going to suddenly see the truth just because I bring him pretty pictures. In fact, coming from me, it will only make him dig his heels in deeper.”

Myles’s jaw clenches, his knuckles digging into his thighs. “Ilya can’t fucking get away with this.”

“I don’t plan on letting Ilya get away with anything.” I sweep the photos into a neat stack and hand them back to Myles. “Add these to the growing collection of evidence against my dear baby brother. The time to strike is coming, but it’s not now.”

“And what about Danovic?”

I shrug, the gesture calculated and cold. “Sometimes you have to sacrifice a piece to win the game. I’m playing the long game here, Myles.”

Myles unfurls his fists with a weary exhale. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Rising from my chair, I plant my hands on the desk and lean forward. “I won’t be blindsided by those two again. When I take Ilya down, it’s going to be permanent.”

An hour later, sweat drips down my face as I tear across the ice. My breathing comes in heavy bursts, but it’s not enough. A workout isn’t worth shit unless I’m teetering on the edge of cardiac arrest.

I cut across the ice for the closest puck, imagining it’s Ilya’s head as I wind up and rip a sizzling shot into the net. Every opposing player that dares to stand in my way is my father’s sour disapproval. I scorch the rink under my skates, picturing that it’s Katerina lying below me, being torn to shreds.

It was Myles’s idea to come to the rink, but I’m not even sure where he is until I hear someone applauding from the stands.

Myles is sitting behind the penalty box, free of gear and hair damp from a shower. I float across the rink towards him.

“When did you hit the showers?”

“Half an hour ago.” He smirks. “You had some demons to exorcize. Plus, I didn’t feel like getting shoulder-checked into next week again.”

I should probably apologize, but we both know I won’t. Myles knew what he signed up for when he suggested hockey. He knows how I play.

I join him in the stands, shedding gear as I go. My t-shirt is soaked through with sweat, clinging to every muscle like a second skin. I empty half my water bottle over my head and let it sluice down my chest before drinking the rest.

“So.” Myles leans back, studying me with those too-observant eyes. “Did you work out your brother issues, or do we need to talk about it?”

Myles misses nothing. It’s an admirable quality for my head of security to have.

As my friend, it makes him insufferable.

“There’s nothing to work out.” I scrub a towel over my face. “I already assumed Ilya and Kat were still fucking around. Now, I have proof. Why should I give a shit?”

“Because you loved them both once.”

The laugh that rips from my throat is sharp enough to cut glass. “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure. Ilya was there from the beginning—I just didn’t see it.”

That memory is seared in my mind. We were in Moscow for the summer, and when Ilya found out I was going to the rink to meet Kat, he begged to come along. I thought it was to play hockey. The ice was the one thread that connected me, my half-brother, and our father. The one place we could share common ground.

I was dead fucking wrong about that.

It took three years of marriage to realize that while I was grinding myself to dust trying to impress everyone—Kat, my father, even Ilya—my brother was sneaking around behind my back.

If I hadn’t been the eldest son, she probably would’ve married him instead. As it was, she settled for the inheritance that came with my ring while secretly riding my brother’s dick.

She played me for a fool.

I’m not the kind of man who forgives that.

Myles stands, clapping my shoulder with a hand that’s equal parts sympathy and warning. “They’ve had a good run, brother, but it’s all coming to an end soon.”

“Count on it.” I crack my neck from side to side. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Myles leaves, but I stave off the shower for a little while. The longer I stay in this frozen wasteland, the longer I can pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.

I fish out my phone, bracing for whatever fresh hell awaits in my inbox. Maybe a goodbye letter from that traitor Danovic.

Instead, there’s a text from an unknown number.

My first instinct is to delete it. Probably just another spam bot trying to sell me an extended car warranty. But I’m in no rush to rejoin civilization, so I tap it open.

A voice recording. Three minutes long.

I hesitate. My thumb hovers over the play button. I have a fucked-up history with this shit. Some things aren’t meant to be seen. Aren’t meant to be heard. Three minutes is only three minutes—but I know better than anyone that it doesn’t take long to ruin everything.

A few minutes is all it takes to change your life.

A few minutes is all it takes to burn everything you know to the ground.

But fuck it—the past is gone and I refuse to be a prisoner to it.

I press play.

“… I’d give him the Rufus treatment and hump the life out of him…”

Even through the tinny speaker, I’d know that voice anywhere. The Rufus reference is just confirmation.

I increase the volume and bend in a little closer.

“… and when he’s standing right in front of me, I strip.”

The more she talks, the harder I get. Little Nova Pierce has plans for me, and the heat rising under my skin at every word seems eager to play along. I could let her take charge for one night—as long as I get to take my turn, too.

The recording ends too soon. I immediately scroll back, stopping randomly just to hear that breathy voice again.

“We’re just getting started, though. I’m not done with him yet.”

Maybe I’m not done with the little dogwalker, either.

Maybe I’m just getting started.