Scarred Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #2)

1. Veronica

1

VERONICA

T here are two things I hoped I’d never see again.

One’s my ex-boyfriend, who is currently blocking the only way out of this room. The other is the gun in his hand.

Fear twists through me like barbed wire, the taste of bile sharp on my tongue. He leans against the locked boardroom door, waving the gun my way, a gold toothpick sticking from his mouth.

This was supposed to be a job interview. A fresh start, far from the bruises he painted on my skin and the scars he left gouged into my soul.

But the interview was fake, bait for a trap. And Marco Gorlami, the man who once swore he’d never hurt me, stands like he still owns every shattered piece of me.

He nods at the briefcase on the table. “Open it, Veronica.”

I don’t move. My feet are rooted in place, my hands trembling at my sides.

He levels the gun at me, his sadistic expression horrifyingly familiar.

I shudder, remembering the time he pressed the pistol to my head, calmly telling me he could end my life in an instant and no one would ever know. I knew sheer terror in that moment, and it never fully dissipated.

“You didn’t think you could walk away from me, did you?” he says. “I let you play your little game, but it’s been going on long enough.”

“We broke up,” I say, my words faltering.

He shakes his head. “We both knew how this was going to end. Don’t look so surprised. Actions, meet consequences. Isn’t that what you said when you walked out?”

“What are you going to do?” I ask, trying to sound like the woman who left him six months ago, not the one who wakes up sweating from nightmares about his twisted face and merciless, bruising knuckles. “Shoot me in the middle of Manhattan?”

“You thought I’d let your insult go?” he says, taking a step closer. “But we’re not done, honey. I decide when we’re done, not you.”

My eyes flick to the door again. Locked. It’s me, Marco, and the briefcase.

“Open the case, Vee. I’ll be pissed if I have to ask again.”

My fingers tremble as I snap open the latches. Inside, nestled in a velvet lining, is a plain brown envelope, innocuous, unmarked, yet radiating danger like a live wire.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Take a look inside, honey.”

My mouth moves too fast, the words out before I can swallow them down. “Don’t call me honey, Marco. You know I hate that.”

He rolls the gold toothpick between his teeth.“That’s what I love about you,” he says, barking out a laugh. “You’re locked in here with me, and you’re still trying to give me orders. You’ve got balls,” he pauses to sneer at me, “ honey .”

My mouth opens, another smartass comment on the tip of my tongue, but the look in his eyes silences me.I reach for the envelope, my pulse hammering in my throat.

If Elena were here, her new Bratva husband would snap Marco’s puny neck with one snap of her fingers. But to alert her to what’s happening, I need to get my phone out of my pocket, which seems insanely risky.

I rip open the envelope. When I see what’s inside, I stop thinking about making a call.

Photos. Dozens of them. My body, my privacy, violated in Marco’s apartment. Asleep. In the shower. Getting dressed. Having sex. Moments stolen, twisted, frozen in time without my consent.

Beneath the photos is a slim black tracker paired with a printed log. My movements. Every place I’ve been for the last few weeks, detailed with chilling precision. Emails I’ve sent and received. Every single one.

There’s more—a stack of cash, thick and crisp, like the kind gangsters throw around in rap videos. An engagement ring that screams stolen. Two plane tickets to the resort in Fiji he always promised to take me.

Last of all, a death certificate, my name stamped at the top. Dated today.

I back away from the briefcase like it’s on fire. “Romantic,” I manage, my voice thin and shaky. “Real romantic.”

Marco leans back on the door. “You’re going to marry me, Veronica.” His tone is tender, with an edge of steel. “Or you’re going to die, and I’m going to send those photos to everyone you ever met.

“Think of it like a gameshow, the jackpot round. You can have the cash and the vacations, everything you women want. Or I can tuck you up nice and snug in a body bag.”

He yawns like he’s bored. “Just put the ring on your finger, and we’ll walk out of here together, but you better believe I’ll never let you out of my sight again.”

His sheer entitlement shatters something inside me, and my instinct for self-preservation evaporates, replaced by a frantic, impotent rage.

“You’re delusional,” I snap, pointing at my arm as fury overpowers my fear. “Or did you forget how you gave me this scar?”

He grabs his crotch. “You’re playing hard to get. You know I like that.”

I shake my head, an idea forming. “You’ve been following me, taking pictures of me, tracking my movements. What next, Marco? An artistic scrapbook of every time I take a piss?”

I stare at him as I talk, trying to slide my phone out of my pocket. My fingers curl around it, and I pray he doesn’t notice, hoping he’s too busy being amused. He always enjoyed it when I fought back; he’s sick that way.

“You think I’ll walk down the aisle?” I say, trying to keep his eyes fixed on my face. “Here’s my counter-offer. You let me go now, and I won’t press charges. How’s that sound?”

“Like you’re trying to distract me.” He’s on me in a flash, snatching the phone from my hand and slamming it onto the table with a sickening crack.

He punches it over and over, his knuckles turning bloody. “You thought that would work? I notice everything.”

Each thud of his fist reminds me of a time when he blacked an eye or bust a lip.

Keep it together, Vee. You’re not that girl anymore.

“You’re insane,” I manage. “You know Elena married Dimitri Chekov, right? You heard of him?

“He is one evil motherfucking Bratva boss who’d chew you up in an instant and spit you out. You hurt me, and you’re in a world of pain, Marco.”

His eyes flash fear for a brief moment, but then he shakes his head again. “Still such a shitty liar.”

“I’m serious. You let me go right now, or you’re a dead man.”

“Have you any idea who my uncle is?” He groans. “That’s right. I never told you, did I? No matter, you’ll meet him soon enough.

“I’m bored of this back-and-forth, honey . You’re afraid of your feelings, and I get that, but it’s time to put on your big girl pants and that goddamn ring. I love you and you love me. That’s all there is to it.”

“You don’t love me. You never did.”

“You’re mine.” He grabs a bunch of hair, yanking it backward. “I watched you going on those dates for the last few months. Scared them all off.” He grins. “Didn’t you wonder why they all fucked off pretty fucking fast? Put the ring on. Now.”

“Marco, this isn’t love,” I say, wincing as he holds me in place. “You just don’t want anyone else to have me.”

His face hardens, the last vestiges of charm evaporating. He slaps me, setting off a ringing sound in my ear, then shakes his head as he staggers back.

“Didn’t mean to hurt you. You just upset me. You shouldn’t do that.”

How many times did he say that to me before?

This time, I’m going to die. Somehow, I know. This is my last stand, a eulogy to myself. I refuse to go out begging.

“You better shoot me because I am done with your bullshit.”

He waves the pistol my way. “You always have to make it so hard, don’t you, Veronica? Always playing the smartass.”

I swallow hard. “Well, one of us has to be smart.”

His eyes darken, and his knuckles tighten around the gun. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

“Apparently not.” I look up at him, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “Mark my words. The Bratva will hunt you down for this.”

“Oh, Veronica,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Don’t you get it yet? We’ll look back and laugh at this one day. Together, we’ll rule over this city as husband and wife.”

I take my chance, sprinting for the door while his back’s turned, my breath harsh as I scramble.

If he thinks I might get away, he really will shoot me. But what choice do I have? I’ve got to try.

I almost make it.

Just as I start to fumble with the latch, he yanks my hair, lifting me off my feet.

“Wrong decision,” he says, his grip tightening.

There’s a flash of brightness as the butt of his pistol comes down, an explosive moment of agony, then darkness.