Stolen By The Bratva King (NYC Russian Royals #2)

Chapter 6

6

One hour later…

Leon

D ammit. I need more than just one kiss.

I’m going insane. It’s the only plausible explanation for why I’m waiting in this damn parking lot like a fool, yearning for another glimpse of the woman who’s burned herself into my mind.

This isn’t me. I’ve never gotten so riled over a girl, not even after knowing her for a while. And I don’t know Emery, except for what I saw: a quietly strong woman, tempered by innocence, with a fierce intelligence and a good heart.

A heart that shouldn’t be anywhere near a scumbag like Dante Firenze.

I’m a bratva pakhan. The boss , for fuck’s sake. If I wanted, I could demand Emery be brought to my penthouse, where I could ravage that gorgeous body day and night until I’d had my fill.

Instead, I’m here, waiting for her like some lovesick teenager, afraid to leave her to the mercy of whoever else might be keeping watch.

I’m stalking her, yes. But I need to know she’s safe, to see for myself that no one else has laid a finger on her.

Holy shit . There she is.

Emery crosses the lot briskly, and I see her click the button on her keys. A white BMW lights up, and I start my engine, falling in behind her vehicle as she heads for the exit.

In her rear window, there’s a sticker, a cartoon picture of a bowl of ramen with a smiley face and a wink. The caption reads, ‘I love noods.’

I chuckle, delighted at the quirky details in Emery that I’m already starting to crave. She doesn’t even know I’m already drinking in everything that makes her unique.

I stay close behind as we leave the hospital grounds, and in time, we pull up outside some apartments on the edge of Greenwich Village.

I park at the end of the street and immediately clock a black van, unmarked, turning onto Emery’s street from the opposite end.

I know a tail when I see one. Fuck knows who they are, but they must be for me, and I can’t risk Emery being caught in any crossfire.

Emery locks her car and heads toward her apartment, oblivious to the potential danger lurking nearby. My gaze traces the curve of her back, but my attention is split now.

I turn my focus back to the van, watching its slow, deliberate crawl down the street. I’m not playing chicken with these assholes outside the apartment of an innocent woman.

I flash my lights, but they ignore my blatant attempt to get a parley going.

I sigh and open the glove box. Okay, enough fucking around.

I retrieve my gun, screwing the silencer into position. As I reach the back of the vehicle, I hear voices speaking low in Italian.

I wrench open the back door, startling the nearest man—a wiry guy with a bad suit and a worse haircut. He drops his phone when he realizes who he’s looking at.

“ Maledetto bastardo russo !” he spits, scrambling back.

I grab him by the collar and haul him out of the van, slamming him onto the pavement. He curses in pain, clutching at his ribs, and I press my foot to his throat, pinning him down.

“Don’t call me names, ublyudok . I speak Italian pretty fucking well.”

I place a foot on his neck and level my pistol at the open van door. “Get out. Pronto .”

Another man emerges, unarmed. He holds a cigarette in one hand and a pretzel in the other.

“Real professional,” I say. “What are you fuckers doing?”

The man on the ground gargles in protest, and I put more weight on his throat, silencing him instantly. The guy with the cigarette answers instead, his words tumbling out in a rush.

“We’re just watching the girl. Our boss is out of town, and he hired us to monitor her.”

“Dante, right?” I laugh. “I met him. Charming bastard, he is not. Who are you two morons? Seems only fair to make sure your names are spelled correctly on your headstones.”

“He’s my brother, Tomaso, and I’m Julio. Messina. Don’t do this, per favore . I can help you with?—”

I press down harder on Tomaso, feeling the slight give of his windpipe. “What makes Dante think he can mouth off at the bratva?”

Julio’s face pales. “Shit. I thought it might be you. We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

I nod. “My reputation precedes me, so you must know that killing you outright is the best outcome you can hope for. You’d better talk if you don’t want me to make a balloon animal out of your intestines.”

Julio’s voice takes on a hysterical pitch. “Dante lived in Italy until his dad died. He inherited some capital, so he came over here and met Alec Bright. Dante partnered with him and got his feet under the table with the family. That’s why he’s marrying the daughter: to get his hands on the old man’s fortune. But we came here with him from Tuscany; we have no idea why he’s making trouble with you!”

Tomasso suddenly shifts, slinging his body to one side and forcing me to lift my foot off his neck. He reaches for his gun, but he’s not fast enough, and I pivot and fire, blowing out the back of his skull.

The pathetic Julio is grasping for a weapon, but a well-aimed shot to his throat sends him crashing back into the van, blood pulsing from his severed jugular. He tries to sit up but bleeds out in seconds, the expanding crimson pool dripping onto the road.

I kick Tomaso’s body under the van and climb inside, pushing Julio aside. The vehicle resembles a police surveillance setup, with a console and headphones, and I put a pair over my ears.

Emery’s soft voice is slightly distorted. “Hiya, big guy,” she coos. “You miss me?”

A powerful surge of jealousy immediately squashes the thrill.

Who is with her? I know logically it can’t be a man, not with her fiancé’s goons listening in, but the possessive surge burns in my chest before I can reign it in.

“I got your food right here,” she says. “Hungry, right? Me too, but you know Dante; he won’t let me keep food in, and I was supposed to eat with him when I got off work. So unless you’re sharing, I’ll stick with toast.”

Ah, it’s some kind of pet. If I listen closely, I might hear barking or?—

Wait. What the fuck did she just say?

Her bastard fiancé doesn’t let her keep food in her own home. The prick controls her life, but instead of spoiling her and meeting her every need and desire, he denies her basic necessities.

No way. Not while I’m here to look after her.

I return to my car and quickly call for a clean-up crew to come and shift the mess. Regrettably, that also means the van and its excellent equipment, but that’s okay—I can upgrade.

In the meantime, my girl needs some tender loving care. If what I overheard is any indication, she hasn’t had a decent meal in hours, if not days.

She’s been at work, saving lives. A bit of bread is not it.

I start up my engine. Collecting takeout for an exhausted and beautiful doctor was not on my bingo card for tonight, but she’s hungry, and I know she likes ramen, so here I fucking go.

There’s always a chance she’ll have an appetite for more than noodles; if so, I’ll be glad to ensure she’s satisfied.