Dmitry's Redemption Read online

  Dmitry’s

  Redemption:

  Book 1

  The Medlov Men Series

  Latrivia Welch

  Dmitry’s Redemption: Book One

  Copyright © 2018 by Latrivia Welch

  RiverHouse Publishing

  1509 Madison Avenue

  Memphis, TN 38104

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All RiverHouse Titles, Imprints and Distributed Lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising and educational or institutional use.

  www.latriviawelchbooks.com

  www.riverhousepublishingllc.com

  For My Medlovians

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not be possible without God’s strength and protection, my family’s love and understanding, my team at RiverHouse Publishing and their passion for publishing, my editor and dear friend, Karen Moss for her dedication and love, and intern editor, Kara Greenstein, for the attention to detail, my talent agent, Tracy Christian and her motivation, and our social media team led by Crystal Peeples and their skill at Welch Public Relations. A special thank you goes to my husband, Bruce Welch, for all his perfect affection. I would also like to thank the Red Door Retreat on Facebook, all my members of the Quill Pen Newsletter and my die-hard fans across the world. God bless each of you.

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Author's Statement

  Dear Reader

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Current Books

  Contact

  Synopsis

  “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”William Shakespeare

  After killing a fellow Vor on the international council, who sought to hurt his family, billionaire Russian crime boss Dmitry Medlov becomes the target of his old mentor’s final death wish. A special hit team is tapped to carry out the assassination, but a simple mistake only leaves him wounded.

  “You should have killed me when you had the chance. Now, I’m coming for you and there is not a damn thing anyone can do to save you.”

  With a second chance to protect his family, the Medlov family crisis plan is activated, causing them to upend their lives completely. The women of the Medlov family are carted off to an undisclosed location, while the men head to declare war on one of their own.

  While trying to protect his family and appeal to his brotherhood, Dmitry is forced to deal with past demons, his own insecurities and his greatest fear – to lose control. However, his vulnerability might lead to making him an even stronger adversary, especially when his family and friends step up to protect the man who has always protected them.

  Read Book One of Dmitry’s Redemption, from the first family of Bratva Romance in the final installation of the Medlov Men Series by USA Today bestselling author Latrivia Welch.

  Author's Statement

  Book Two of Dmitry’s Redemption will be released on Saturday, September 15, 2018 in eBook and paperback format. To join the conversation about the books, please join the Latrivia Welch Red Door Retreat on Facebook or the Latrivia Welch Quill Pen (newsletter). Readers are always welcomed to share feedback via email as well at [email protected].

  Dear Reader

  A s we approach the end of the Medlov Men Series, I want to thank you for your support and promise that the adventures of the Medlov family will not end any time soon. I have so much in store for you. However, in order to lead us into the next evolution of our favorite bad boys, we had to take this journey and learn about what has made each man and woman who they will be in future stories.

  The great thing about this series is that Vasily and Lilly in Vasily’s Revenge, Gabriel and Valeriya in Gabriel’s Regret, Anatoly and Renee in Anatoly’s Retribution and Dmitry and Royal in Dmitry’s Redemption are all about the internal struggle of the main character and his love interest, showing their weaknesses and strengths and how they have learned valuable lessons about themselves through trail and tribulations.

  I truly hope that you enjoy Dmitry’s story. It has been amazing to write. Through your love and support, this character has ground a subgenre. There would be no other bratva romance stories out there had it not been your vision with Dmitry’s Closet. So, let’s open the pages of his newest story together.

  Love always,

  Latrivia Welch

  “ Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose

  To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,

  And in the calmest and most stillest night,

  With all appliances and means to boot,

  Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!

  Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”

  William Shakespeare

  Chapter One

  Vladimir Central

  Moscow, Russia

  Winter, 1989

  I t seemed as though the weather was always at its worse when death was on the horizon. At least for Dmitry Medlov. Every time he heard the rumble of angry thunder in the distance, he wondered what trouble was lurking around the corner for him. Unfortunately, tonight was no different.

  Near midnight as heavy rain beat against the red brick walls of Vladimir Central and strong winds shook the power lines to the point of constant flickering, while the vicious prison dogs slept soundly in their metal cages, and the guards played cards and turned their attention from the festivities, a battle of epic proportions was preparing to unfold.

  The testosterone-filled collective roar that boomed through the empty, underground halls of Korpus 3 was deafening. Pure pandemonium had erupted in anticipation of a break from the normal tedium of prison life.

  Alas, blood sport was on the menu, stoking the ever-palpable tensions between the Russian underworld hierarchy and the plebs forced to serve sentences among them.

  Tonight, the designated gladiators were an unlikely pair - Dmitry Medlov, an 18-year-old soldier of the Vory v Zakone was opposite Yuri Orlov, a 34-year-old dock worker. Both had been convicted of murder, thus their current sentence in one of the country’s most notorious prisons, but there was only one-real killer of the two.

  Involuntary manslaughter had led Yuri Orlov to prison after his temper got the best of him one night in an alcohol-induced rage. In a fit, he killed two co-workers at a local bar during an argument. The next morning when he woke, he did not even remember the fight, only that he was in jail, covered in blood and accused of a heinous crime that left two families without providers, two wives without husbands and six children without their fathers.

  However, murder-for-hire was the only profession Dmitry Medlov had ever known outside of being an involuntary pimp for his mother.

  While other boys his age were busy with school and girls, he had lorded over an entire district with brute force and unforgiving discipline working for the Russian mafia as a henchman of sorts.
It did not take intimate feelings for the teenager to use his blade – only opportunity. In fact, even at this point in his life, he had never killed for personal reasons, just money, power and respect.

  Now the two men found themselves in a make-shift arena of crumbling, white tile, leaky shower stalls filled with mold, unflushed toilets, and thick steel bars surrounded by a mob of sweaty, stinky inmates in a preordained fight to the death because of inflammatory words exchanged over the lunch hour in the convict mess hall.

  But the words had not been spoken by or to Dmitry, nor had he even been present during the exchange. In fact, Dmitry had been in another Korpus altogether, getting stitches from an unrelated debacle from the previous day, when Yuri had spoken out of turn against a highly respected underworld boss of the Vory v Zakone brotherhood, Alexander Popov.

  Yuri had called the old man a has-been, suggested Alexander and his brother, Peter, were relics with no real power, except that which had been given to them by the child-like prisoners, who naively held the two old men in a regard akin to Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.

  Even as Yuri spoke, loud and taunting, hoping Alexander would hear him at the table across from him, other more sensible prisoners warned Yuri to tone it down, let it go, stop before his words took root and his fate was sealed.

  But Yuri was angry after seeing the old man get preferential treatment by the cafeteria staff. While other convicts ate non-descript slop from silver trays like animals, Alexander and his brother were served choice-cut steaks and fresh vegetables on real plates.

  “This is shit!” Yuri had exclaimed, face reddening. “We’re all convicts. That old fuck is no better than me!” he had shouted, beating his meaty chest to add weight to his already heavy words. “You all treat him like he’s a king, when he’s going to die in here like the rest of us. His power is only what you give him. But you’re all too foolish to understand he’s been stripped of his life like we’ve been stripped of ours. Fuck him and his brother! I am a man too! Bring me a fucking steak!”

  Alexander Popov didn’t like to be taunted, and he didn’t like to be questioned, especially by a dock worker with no tattoos, no history, and no place. So as men did in his position, he sent a message – one that could be heard loud and clear. He’d show not only Yuri Orlov how much power he held within these walls, but also anyone else who might be thinking of rebelling against the Vory.

  With a word, Korpus 3 was transformed into a pop-up fight club - the guards deaf to the sounds coming from it - and Yuri was left to stand on his own two feet, facing the brotherhood with one chance to not only save his honor but his life. If he won, he would never be bothered again. If he lost, he wouldn’t have to worry about Alexander’s steak and vegetables or anything else for that matter, because he’d be dead.

  True, there had been other avenues that could have been taken to resolve the matter. One of the Vory soldiers could have simply slit Yuri’s throat; one of the prison guards could have shot him for trying to flee or set the dogs on him and offered him up as a late afternoon snack. However, by having the over-confident Yuri assassinated, Alexander would have martyred him.

  In a fight to the death, however, Yuri would be a tool, a public service announcement for the rest of the prison, reiterating the fact that the Popov brothers were not only the underground lords in the streets of Moscow, but also the true rulers of Vladimir Central.

  And to add insult to injury, because of the jibe about Alexander’s age, he sent a boy to fight Yuri, the youngest in the prison and the deadliest of all the convicts.

  Alexander had handpicked a Vor of superior competence in the arena of death, a man who had lived up to the nickname he had earned on the streets – the butcher. The boy had served under him for three years, learning how to lead instead of following and how to kill smarter, quicker, more effectively.

  And Dmitry had been a loyal pupil to his liege. He served Alexander faithfully and without question. When he was told that he would face Yuri Orlov tonight, he only nodded his head – no words needed after his orders were dispatched.

  One would have thought that news of his skilled adversary would have scared Yuri or at least sobered his thinking. But he was a man who held his own council and felt himself an equal to all men. With hands laden with calluses from working the docks at a local fishery and muscles in his arms the size of boulders, his reputation preceded him not only as a murderer, but a street fighter, ready to brawl when his limited education prevented him from using his words. And because of his vanity, he found it laughable that he’d have to face a mere child in the arena instead of someone more seasoned and worthy.

  In contrast, Dmitry Medlov was a quiet young man, never one for many words or boisterous theatrics. He killed as quietly as he spoke. With swift, powerful movements, he had already dispatched well over 20 men since he had arrived at Vladimir Central. Some had been beaten to a bloody pulp by his massive hands by the decree of his captains, but others had been neutralized with a simple neck snap or the crushing of a man’s fragile larynx with an aggressive squeeze. He didn’t like to kill gruesomely, feeling it allowed the act to become too personal. Instead, he made it as painless as possible – quick and to the point.

  Most were taken aback when they saw Dmitry for the first time. He was nearly seven feet tall without shoes, packed from neck to ankles with hard, lean muscle and was as agile as a lion. But it wasn’t just his gigantic size that was intimidating.

  The boy was unnaturally beautiful, angelic even. His skin was kissed with a glowing tan, his hair a mass of feathery golden strands before it was shaved off, his eyes a startling diamond-like blue hue. He had a full, lush, wide-set pink mouth, high cheek bones, a perfect nose – unbroken amazingly even after all his fights, a dimple in his chin, and squared jaw line that looked to have been carved by God himself. His voice was a deep baritone that captured everyone’s attention when he spoke, and he had a serpentine grace that was noticeable even when he was led through the prison halls blind-folded and bent in a stress position as he was escorted by guards with weapons and dogs.

  But even as powerful and skilled as he was, Dmitry never underestimated an opponent – he gave each of them respect, even when he killed them. After all, he might have been just a gutter rat, but he didn’t have to behave like one.

  Now at the behest of Alexander Popov, Dmitry stood barefoot in the corner of the shower stalls of Korpus 3, naked from the waist up, wearing only his black-and-white striped pajama bottoms below, donning all the hard-earned tattoos that spoke to his impeccable underworld pedigree with a pointy shiv in his right hand, eyeing Yuri Orlov with one thing in mind – evisceration.

  All the halogen lights hanging above the stalls had been unscrewed except for the small ones that dangled from a wire in the middle of the room, creating an ominous ambience for the fight. With everyone else in the background, hidden by shadows and darkness, one man emerged into the illuminated center to set the stage.

  He licked his dry, cracked lips and took a deep breath. “You know the rules, gentlemen,” the appointed referee, an older trustee with a twice-broken nose said, extending his hands to calm the excess chatter as the fighters approached from their designated corners. He stood, frail and bony, in between the two hulking warriors.

  The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife – common man against Vory – principles against precept. All it would take was one wrong move for all to erupt in a bloody fight to the death among them. But none would move just yet. They all waited, watching each other with untrusted glares.

  For a second, there was complete silence with only the sound of water dripping from the faucets. The old man’s voice echoed with a raspy, authoritative boom as he elevated it so that all who fell under the sound of his words could hear. “You, Yuri Orlov and Dmitry Medlov, have been selected to fight for the honor of our home. This fight will be recorded for the valor of one side or the other. No men are allowed to fight tonight in this place but you two. Anyone who aids either man or
creates unapproved violence will be killed immediately and fed to the dogs.” He glanced around the room at all the eyes planted on him. Those who were selected to keep the order flexed their muscles and revealed their weapons – knives, shivs, pipes and chains. When the trustee was sure that he had secured everyone’s attention, he continued, “In this fight, everything is fair, except running. You must stand; you must fight; one of you must die. First man to die…loses. First man to kill…wins,” he said in Russian.

  Dmitry knew the prison rules well. He had been in more than his fair share of fights in this room before – and none had been lost. A wicked half-grin was painted across his face, but his enchanting eyes were hollow, void of emotion. He felt nothing inside. There was no excitement, no urgency, no nervousness. He had no thoughts on the matter that had caused this. All he focused on was winning.

  The trustee cast a quick glare up to Dmitry, who stood in a trance, and then over to Yuri, who was sucking his stained front teeth and mocking the young boy with a contemptuous smirk.

  “Nod if you understand these rules,” the trustee ordered, taking his job very seriously.

  Both men nodded at the same time, and as the referee stepped back and dropped the white rag to the floor, he shouted a thunderous declaration. “FIGHT!”

  Immediately, the crowd exploded again, chanting, clapping and waving their fists. Crawling over each other like rats spilling out of a barrel, they jabbed and elbowed to get a better view.

  Some hoped that Yuri, the underdog, would prevail for the common man. While the Vor in the room screamed for Dmitry’s success and the continued reign of their Czar.

  Right out of the gate, Dmitry swung, his blade making a swishing sound through the air as its shiny tip aimed toward Yuri’s bald, sweaty head. But Yuri dodged the swing and countered with one of his own, barely missing Dmitry’s exposed abdomen with his knife.