Heart of My Monster: A Dark Mafia Romance (Monster Trilogy Book 3)

There must be some sort of a mix-up.

I refuse to believe that the cottage where Sasha is has been blown to shreds.

I just fucking refuse.

And yet, when we arrive at the scene, chaos unfolds.

It took us four hours more than I had to spare to arrive at the cottage, and we only got here in that time because Viktor drove at supersonic speed, narrowly avoiding a few accidents.

It was still not fast enough.

I spent the way here calling Sasha and getting her voicemail. I couldn’t track her either since her phone is turned off.

I really should’ve inserted a fucking tracker in her flesh. I was fooled by the false sense of security of having her by my side for years, so I overlooked this angle.

If—when—I find her, I’ll put that tracker in her skin. Personally, if I have to.

Bleak reality snaps my shoulder blades together as Viktor and I step out of the car. The view that greets us is that of emergency and police vehicles overcrowding the front of the cottage.

Or what remains of it.

The place has been destroyed to the point of unrecognition. Remnants of wood flooring, doors, and furniture are scattered in the aftermath—black, grimy, and barely recognizable. Some of the surrounding trees have also broken and fallen to their demise in the midst of the catastrophe.

I freeze, my legs barely holding me upright. The shouts and orders from the police and firefighters slowly fade away to a muffled noise, as if they’re speaking from underwater.

A shrill ringing sound fills my ears, and I’m flung out of my physical body. We’re separate entities now. While my outside remains calm, collected, and looking completely unfazed, my insides erupt in dangerous flames that threaten to eat me alive.

I catch a glimpse of the car I gave Sasha the day she left. Only the bones of the vehicle are visible and even those are barely discernible. The scene is straight out of some Middle Eastern war.

My feet move of their own accord to the ambulance. I expect to find Sasha standing in front of the destruction with a fucking rifle slung across her chest after she’s managed to kill those who dared to attack her.

But maybe that’s too optimistic. She’s still one woman, and while she has balls bigger than most men, no one can predict a bombing.

She must’ve been injured in her attempts to escape—that’s the only option I’ll allow.

One of the medics has the audacity to try to stop me from opening the back of the ambulance.

He grabs my arm. “You can’t do that, sir.”

I twist it around and push him away so hard, he ends up on his ass on the ground.

When he tries to stand up again, Viktor is in his face.

I reach a hand toward the handle and stop when I feel a slight tremor in my limbs. A phenomenon that I’ve wholly purged out of my system. A phenomenon that only occurred after I was tortured for days on end by my father’s band of sadists.

Calm the fuck down.

If I got through that dark period of my life, I can survive this.

Sasha is just clutching her injured arm or leg inside. There’s no way in fuck—

My hand drops to my side the moment I open the door.

A body lies on the stretcher, covered by a white sheet. The smell of sickeningly burned flesh clogs my nostrils, but that’s not the reason I find it hard to breathe.

It’s the black skeleton-like hand peeking from beneath the sheet. I approach it slowly, my movements stiff and unnatural.

I take the roasted hand in my shaky one. Ash and burned flesh smudge my skin, but the only thing I’m focused on is the ring burned into the second to last finger.

I rub the top of it, and my heart fucking falls to my knees when the green is exposed.

No.

I remove it with some of the flesh, and Kirill’s stares me right in the face.

Fucking no.

I frantically check her other wrist, and my hand shakes uncontrollably when I find the bracelet I gave her for her last birthday. I struggle to separate it from the burnt skin, but when I see Sasha, a scream builds at the back of my throat.

Fuck no.

I don’t know how I remain standing as I remove the cover to reveal her face.

Or what used to be a face.

There’s a black skeleton instead. Some flesh has melted off the bone, leaving a gory mess where her eyes, nose, and lips are supposed to be. Her hair is gone, and so are any other features I could identify her with.

I stand there for a long moment, studying every burn, every cut, every disfigured feature.

Maybe if I stare hard enough, this scene will disappear.

“Boss…”

My head slowly tilts in Viktor’s direction. He looks at the burned body with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. It’s the most seriously affected I’ve seen him since we lost Rulan and his brigade in that last Spetsnaz mission.

“Wipe that fucking look off your face, Viktor. This isn’t Sasha.” I don’t know how the fuck I sound calm when I’m on the verge of losing my fucking mind.

The ring and bracelet burn in my fingers as if they’re still on fire.

“I’m sorry, Kirill.”

“What the fuck are you apologizing for? This isn’t my fucking wife. Find her.”

He doesn’t move, not even an inch.

“What are you waiting for? I told you to fucking find her.”

“You already did, Kirill.”

I grip him by the collar and haul him against me to peer down his goddamn nonexistent soul. “Don’t fuck with me, Viktor. I told you this isn’t her, so your job is to nod your fucking head and go find her.”

He clasps my hand, and instead of removing it, he squeezes. “My job is to tell you hard truths, and the current one is that we were too late. Lipovsky died in the aftermath of the bombing. I understand that you don’t want to accept that—”

His words are cut off when I slam my fist in his face. He staggers back, barely catching himself before he falls.

“Shut the fuck up. She didn’t die.”

He says nothing, but his gaze falls on the ring and bracelet I’m still clenching in my hand. He doesn’t have to speak for me to hear “You’re holding the evidence.”

I lift my head and stare at the cloudy sky. It’s gray, grim, and absolutely depressing, but it doesn’t compare to the dark abyss that’s currently replaced my heart.

The world has always been monotone to me—either black or gray. The only person who introduced me to a fucking rainbow of colors has now turned black.

She’s now being ripped out of my heart and leaving a bottomless pit in her wake.

Everything has turned to ashes. All I can do is glare at the sky, feel moisture filling my eyes, and let out a raw scream.

I was ready to believe that Sasha wasn’t dead.

Anyone could’ve put that bracelet and ring on the corpse to make me think it was my Sasha.

But then, the DNA test came out as a match, and now, I’m on edge, only a few moments away from pushing myself over.

But I can’t join her yet.

It’s been a week since I saw her skeleton. They had to search for her legs since they were scattered apart.

A week in which I haven’t seen a wink of sleep, I’ve stumbled in and out of a drunken haze, and I’ve nearly started killing anyone I’ve seen walking down the street.

If the only light in my life was taken away, how dare they keep theirs?

If my world is flipped upside down, why the fuck is everyone else living as if nothing happened?

A week of Karina crying nonstop and trying to console me, only for me to shut the door in her face. Konstantin tried, too, but he was also given the cold shoulder.

Not even Anna has been allowed to touch me.

Apparently, Viktor told the family about Sasha’s identity so they know she’s a woman and my wife.

Was. Fuck. I still can’t believe she became a was.

Still, I didn’t accept anyone’s condolences. I don’t need fucking emotions. I murdered them a long time ago, and they’re not coming back.

All this dizziness, disorientation, and pure fucking mania is a translation of my need for revenge.

We lost communication with Maksim after that text. Viktor sent men to look for him to no avail.

And with that, we lost our only lead to the Ivanovs.

As in, the founders of the Belsky Organization. I didn’t make the connection at first, but after Sasha left for the cottage, Viktor revealed that, according to the KGB intelligence, the family behind the Belsky Organization is called Ivanov.

They’re some form of aristocrats who, apparently, have always had deals with the governments in Russia and went as far as putting them in power. Until the current ruler of the Kremlin, who’s been out to annihilate them ever since he got into office.

I doubted Sasha knew any of that. Her sole purpose seemed to be revenge for her family’s murder.

However, no matter which angle I look at the tale from, there are still too many plot holes. One, I haven’t dealt with any Ivanovs in my lifetime. The only incident involving them that comes to mind is when Konstantin was kidnapped and tortured by someone who I presume was one of them.

Their whole existence is still blurry.

Everything is.

Even Yuri disappeared off the face of the fucking earth. Which makes me paranoid as fuck.

Losing not only Sasha but also Maksim and Yuri is like walking around with gaping wounds.

It’s been three days since I buried her in the family cemetery and ordered a tombstone with Aleksandra Morozova engraved on it.

It’s been two days since we started searching for leads for whoever could’ve ordered that hit on her.

It’s been one day since we located the most probable suspects—the Albanians.

I pull out my gun and stare at an old building on the outskirts of an ancient industrialized area in Boston.

The sun sets in the distance, casting an orange hue that will turn into red with the blood of those fuckers.

“We’re ready,” Viktor says from beside me.

Dark circles surround his eyes from how much I’ve overworked him this week. He’s barely slept, and when he has, I’ve called him to my office to dig into any information I’ve gathered.

He doesn’t complain, but he does bitch about how I need some rest and that I might drop dead.

Might as well.

I haven’t been in my room since I saw that body. Every corner is full of her presence, natural scent, and soft smiles.

It’s full of her care, her countless attempts to put me to sleep. It’s full of her tangible concern about my well-being and safety.

Every inch of me revolts at the idea of being there when she isn’t.

The thought of closing my eyes without her around terrifies the fuck out of me.

“We’re taking a left, yeah?” Damien’s eyes shine in the dark like a madman’s. He’s been my companion in my mission to wipe out everyone I suspect.

This time, we expanded our options to Boston because the leader of the Albanians here, Roel, is the cousin of the motherfucker we killed a few months ago in New York.

As the new Pakhan of the New York Bratva, the most reckless thing to do is starting wars or stepping on other factions’ toes. There was an inauguration ceremony two days ago that the whole organized crime world attended, but I barely showed my face.

I don’t give a fuck about the position.

I’m only using the power it gave me to figure out who’s behind that bombing, and I need to know exactly why it happened.

“Do whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t get in my way.” I don’t wait for Damien’s reply as I walk toward the building.

Viktor advised me to cover my tracks, but fuck that. I want them to see me coming and scramble like rats. My guard curses low from behind me, then runs to cover me as the men inside filter out like ants.

All I see are people who need to be dead. Every last fucking one of them. I won’t stop until they’re all buried six feet under like she is.

I raise my gun and shoot anyone who comes into view. My movements appear collected, but they follow no rhyme or rhythm.

A bullet grazes my bicep, sending my arm flying sideways. I switch the gun to my other hand and continue firing away. My jacket saturates with blood before it drips on the concrete, but I don’t feel the pain.

I feel nothing but fucking rage now.

If Sasha were here, she’d kill anyone who attempted to hurt me. If she were to see this wound, she’d fawn over me with affection and concern. For the first time in my life, I felt like my well-being mattered and that I meant the world to someone else.

And now, that someone who made me the center of her world has disappeared, turning mine into an abyss.

Damien laughs like a maniac as he kills everyone in his path, their blood soaking him in no time since he likes to do it up close and personal.

A car revs behind us, and I spin around and shoot all four tires. It swerves and hits the side of the building, and then it’s a full-on shoot-out. My men cover me and manage to kill the ones in the car except for the one we’re here for.

Viktor pushes a bulky man with a buzz cut to his knees in front of me. Damien’s guards and my other ones are busy eliminating the rest of the Albanians, but I couldn’t give a fuck about them now.

The only one who matters is this motherfucker right here. His name is Roel and he’s a dead man, but not before he tells me what I need to know.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he spits out in a heavy accent. “We have allies who will come after you and the whole fucking brotherhood, Morozov. You don’t have any idea how much fucking chaos you’re starting.”

“Apparently, you don’t either or you wouldn’t have fucked with me.” I retrieve my phone, then scroll to a picture that I’ve been staring at whenever I need something to ground me.

It’s Sasha during my last birthday party. Maksim took countless photos that night and sent them to everyone. In this one, she’s laughing with Yuri. I cut him out and only kept her.

I look at her carefree expression through a red haze. Literally. My glasses are splashed with blood, and I can’t be bothered to clean them.

“Who ordered the hit on this person?” I ask calmly, apathetically even.

Roel stares at the picture, and there’s no change in his expression. I’ll give him that. But there is a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

He knows exactly why the fuck I’m here.

“I’ve never seen her in my life.”

“I didn’t say she was a she.” I thrust the phone in his face. “Why was she killed?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles against the screen.

“Very well.” I pocket my phone. “Viktor. Bring me some motherfuckers.”

I remove my jacket, throw it aside, and slowly roll my shirt sleeves to my elbows. The wound in my bicep has stopped bleeding, but not before it soaked my white shirt red.

Viktor and a few of my other guards push five Albanians in front of me beside Roel. They look at their leader with both fear and pleading.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he repeats from behind clenched teeth. “If you want something, torture me!”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I fetch my knife. “Besides, you’ll probably never talk, even if you’re tortured to within an inch of your life, and I’d rather not waste any effort.”

“You’re supposed to be the fucking Pakhan! This is madness.”

I grab one of his men, position him on his knees facing Roel, and hold the blade to his throat. “Who ordered the hit?”

“I don’t fucking know!”

I slice his throat in one motion. Blood splashes from his neck, bathing Roel and me. I don’t blink as I throw the sorry fuck aside while he gurgles and chokes on his own blood.

Roel curses while his other men look like they’re going to be sick.

I clean my glasses with my shirt, then clutch the second one and jam my knife at his throat. “Who ordered it?”

“I said I don’t fucking know!!” He’s screaming now, so close to losing control as the one in my hold trembles.

I stab him in the back of the neck, then in his throat and heart and chest, over and over, and fucking over. I do it long after he’s dead and mutilated, until someone actually throws up.

This time, I don’t bother cleaning my glasses and throw them on the corpse.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Roel whispers, his whole body shaking.

I haul the third man to his feet, then kick him in the shin as he screams and fruitlessly tries to fight my grip. “Who ordered it?”

Roel shakes his head, hesitantly this time.

I snap the third’s neck then shove him aside. “I can do this all night long. I’ll bring your wife and children, too. I’ll slaughter each and every one of them in front of your eyes. I’ll stab them so many times that you won’t recognize their fucking corpses. Just like I didn’t recognize her corpse.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Not the answer I need.” I clutch the fourth by the hair. He smells of vomit, and he’s pissed himself at watching his comrades being slaughtered.

He doesn’t even fight me and mumbles what sounds like a prayer in Albanian.

No God answers him as I slice his throat open.

“Viktor.” I wipe the blood from my face with the back of my hand. “Bring me Roel’s family.”

“Wait! Wait!” Roel breathes heavily, and the man beside him nearly faints with relief.

“After you murdered my cousin, I wanted to kill you with my bare hands, but that was impossible with my manpower.” He pants as if he’s coming down from running a marathon. “A few weeks ago, we met a man who said if I wanted to really hurt you, I should kill your girly guard. He told us to wait until he gives us the okay and an opening. That opening came a week ago when that guard was alone. He sent us the place’s coordinates and told us to wipe it and everyone inside of it out.”

My jaw tightens. “What does he look like?”

“When we met, he was on the other side of a wall and spoke using a voice altering device. Our subsequent communication was done through emails.”

“Where are those emails?”

“In the car.”

Viktor heads there and fetches a briefcase from the trunk. He opens it and retrieves a laptop, then brings it to Roel, who opens it with a thumbprint.

Viktor goes through it for a few minutes, then nods.

I lean down and stare at Roel’s beady eyes. “You messed with the wrong fucking person. I’ll make sure none of you roam the streets ever again.”

While looking at him, I throw the knife straight at his last man’s throat. “I’m going to torture you until you wish for fucking death, Roel, and even then, I won’t give it to you. I’ll make your life as bleak as you made mine.”

But I know—I just know—that nothing will ever fill the hole that’s been growing bigger and deeper in my chest.

The only person who knew how is now gone.