Savage Savior

Savage Savior A Dark Bratva Romance Fedorov Bratva Book 2 Sonja Grey Copyright © 2023 by Sonja Grey All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum Contents Newsletter Sign Up Also by Sonja Grey Blurb 1. Artyom 2. Riley 3. Artyom 4. Riley 5. Artyom 6. Riley 7. Artyom 8. Riley 9. Artyom 10. Riley 11. Artyom 12. Riley 13. Artyom 14. Riley 15. Artyom 16. Riley 17. Artyom 18. Riley 19. Artyom Epilogue Thank You! Caught by the Bratva Boss Grumpy Bratva Hitman Russian Boxing Club Series About the Author Newsletter Sign Up If you’d like to be a part of my mailing list and get a free novella and bonus epilogues for every book, then please sign up here! or go to: subscribepage.io/lKtqfy Sign up to get this story FREE! Also by Sonja Grey All books are available on Kindle Unlimited!! Russian Boxing Club My Russian Obsession My Russian Temptation My Russian Salvation Stand-Alones Grumpy Bratva Hitman Fedorov Bratva Caught by the Bratva Boss Savage Savior Blurb To everyone else he’s a killer, the man they run from in fear, but to me, he’s the only man who’s ever made me feel safe. Riley: They call him Death. He’s a scarred, tatted-up wall of muscle, a highly trained killer that I should be running from, but I’m lost to Artyom from the first moment I walk into his club and meet his sexy, grey eyes. Everything about him is dangerous, raw, primal—a barely contained savage. And now all his focus is on me. He knows I’m in trouble, and he promises to protect me, to free me from my brother’s quick fists and his vicious friend. To everyone else, he’s a monster. To me, he’s my fierce protector, the one who would do anything to keep me safe. Artyom: People call me Death. It’s a nickname earned in blood and one I fully deserve. Everything I touch turns red, but I can’t stay away from her. She’s a pawn in her brother’s game against the Fedorov Bratva. Too innocent to be working in my club, too innocent for me, but I can’t let her go. She was mine the second I laid eyes on her. And I’ll happily kill anyone who tries to take her from me. Because no one touches what’s mine and lives. Chapter 1 Artyom The night isn’t even halfway over, and I’ve already lost all my patience, torn a hole in my favorite pants, and my phone is almost dead because I forgot to charge it earlier, which means I can’t play my favorite game while I wait for these stupid fuckers to show. It’s safe to say I’m in a very, very bad mood. “Two just showed up.” I perk up at the news and take the night vision binoculars Sergei’s holding out to me. When I see the two men lean against one of the many deserted buildings in this area, I fight the urge to roll my eyes and instead say in Russian, “Can you believe these morons? They might as well hold up a fucking I’m a drug dealer sign and wave it around. They wouldn’t last five minutes in Moscow.” Sergei laughs. “I especially like the trench coat on the first guy. Maybe we’ll get really lucky and he’ll be naked underneath.” “That would be the perfect ending to this shit day, and because I’m so nice, I’ll let you frisk him.” We stop joking around when headlights appear around the corner. The car eases onto the dark side street and stops in front of our guys. The one in the trench coat pushes off from the wall and leans down to speak to the driver. They’re too far away to hear, but I don’t miss the exchange of money for a small baggie that trench coat hands over. That’s all the proof we need. I turn to Sergei and give him a nod, both of us reaching for our guns. I flick off the safety, waiting for the car to disappear around the corner, and as soon as it does, we both move from the darkened alcove we were standing in and fan out to cross the street. The two dipshits are completely oblivious and nearly shit their pants when they see Sergei coming at them from their left and me on their right. In all fairness, we’re an intimidating sight. Most of the Fedorov Bratva are trained Spetsnaz soldiers, Russia’s most elite killers, and people are always a little shocked when they first see us. They’re expecting old, out-of-shape mobsters with comb-overs and fat cigars. Instead, they get highly trained killers dressed all in black with Kevlar vests and more weapons strapped to our bodies than they can count. The men in front of us hold up their hands and take a step back. They look like they’re in their early twenties—old enough to know better, but still too damn young to die for their stupid mistakes. There’s nothing I can do about that, though. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I tell them. “Douglas was warned to keep his men off our streets.” “Who’s Douglas?” the one not wearing a trench coat asks. I point my gun at him and level him with a stare that usually gets my point across with a quickness. “Your boss was told that if he sent any more men into our territory, they would be killed, and yet he sent you two out tonight.” Their eyes widen at my words, and it would be funny if it wasn’t so damn pathetic. “I’d say you should find yourselves a new boss, since this one obviously isn’t worth serving, but you both have to die, so it doesn’t really matter.” “Wait,” trench coat