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

Chapter 33

33

Leon

I stand and wander to the kitchen, the lovingly prepared ramen ingredients mocking me.

Was it only a few minutes ago that I was assembling a meal and daydreaming about my wife, ignorant of the shitshow that was coming my way?

I pick up my phone and open the message.

Call me. Some of our guys got in a scrap.

A scrap ? For fuck’s sake.

Viktor’s voicemail picks up, and my brief message leaves no room for doubt as to whether I’m pissed off.

An hour passes, and I occupy myself at the punchbag, doing all I can to beat my powerless fury into submission.

I’m such a moron.

I love Emery? Yeah, great—I’m sure that’ll make up for everything else.

Who cares if I coerced and lied and overstepped? It’s okay that I sullied her innocence and took all I could. Love conquers all; that’s what they say.

Bullshit. Love is like an earthquake, stealing into my foundations and turning them into shifting sands beneath my feet.

My phone rings, and I answer it immediately, my breathing heavy.

“Leon, what’s up with you?” Viktor asks. “Listen, tovarishch ?—”

“Don’t fucking call me that; I’m the goddamn boss today, okay?” I seethe. “What is going on? I already know someone died.”

“A couple of Italians were talking big in a dockside bar, trying to impress the owner with tales of their floating brothel. The owner knew I was looking for intel about exactly that, so he called a few of our soldiers to come and shake down these new kids and find out who they were working for. Unfortunately, it got out of hand, and the Italians escaped with one of their guys howling on the back seat, a bullet in his guts.”

I punch the counter, splitting my knuckle. “Clearly, they dumped the kid at the hospital and bailed. Because guess who was trying to save the guy only for him to mutter my name, then croak?”

“Emery. Oh, shit.”

Viktor pauses, unsure of me. “What do you want to do, Leon? We know These Sicilian out-of-towners are running the Cobra, and they’re careless, although they might tighten up their operation now. None of the Italian mafia are willing to claim them, and I believe that’s legitimate—everyone knows how you feel about this kind of thing. Who’d risk pissing you off for a few dollars of meat money?”

“One name springs to mind. Did you confirm the Dante Firenze connection?”

“Yes. Those assholes work for him; they were telling anyone who’d listen, the loose-lipped amateurs. I don’t understand why Dante would run such a risky operation. And why didn’t he skip town when you told him to? Surely he knew what’d happen if you found him hanging around.”

Correct. It doesn’t add up, but this is what happens when I get distracted.

I became obsessed with a sweet, beautiful woman and focused on making her mine. This is the inevitable outcome: chaos, bleeding into my world like ink on blotting paper, blighting the order with a dark, indelible stain.

So Dante Firenze is behind all this. I didn’t call it—I figured he was just the kind of idiot who’d sell a boat to those shady Sicilian fucks—but the revelation gives me an excuse to stay close to my wife, whether she likes it or not.

Dante despises me and Emery. A man is dead, and his friends know I’m the enemy; hurting my wife would be a compelling message, not to mention easy to do, given that she’s wandering around unguarded as we speak.

“Viktor, find out where that fucking boat goes.”

I pick up my coat, pulling it over my shoulder. “It must have a regular route or at least a docking schedule, or it wouldn’t be able to do business. And get on with it because, frankly, I’m sick of the whole subject.”

Viktor starts to ask me another question, but I hang up and pocket the phone.

I don’t give a fuck what Emery thinks, not anymore.

There was a time when I didn’t do enough to safeguard the people I loved, and I learned my lesson, so I installed covert tracking on her mobile as soon as I got my hands on it.

My protection is non-negotiable. And that’s why I have to go after her and bring her home, even if she fights me every step of the way.

It’s no surprise when I track Emery to a terraced cafe on The High Line, between 15th and 16th along 10th Avenue. The above-ground park is lush and peaceful, the kind of place I can imagine her going to unwind.

The cafe isn’t particularly busy; the tables are occupied mainly by tourists and couples enjoying matcha lattes, and the overhead patio heaters offset the worst of the chill now that the sun is long gone.

Then I see her.

Sitting low in her chair, a steaming mug in hand, her cheeks red from the cold. She’s lit up by the warm glow of the string lights, and despite her despondent expression, she’s as radiant as ever.

Opposite sits her father, Alec, his face animated as he talks.

I join the back of a small crowd of people queuing for the kiosk, my back to the terrace. A glance confirms that Emery is entirely wrapped up in her dad, her gaze fixed on him as she sips her drink.

I collect my coffee and retreat to a bench on the periphery of the seating area, partially shielded by some shrubbery.

This kind of surveillance is second nature to me, and despite the circumstances, I can’t deny it—watching her again gives me a thrill.

The encroaching darkness is my friend, giving me additional cover, and beyond the coverage of the lights, I’m merely a shadow.

My hand slides to the pistol at my hip. Snub-nosed and quick to draw, needing only economical movement to be ready to fire.

It’s rare for me to face an unknown threat. Fabrizio and his buddies were sloppy, but I can’t assume the whole crew will be.

Dante Firenze has gone from being a wealthy, entitled bully to a totally unpredictable factor. He’s humiliated and angry, yes, but he’s a fool if he thinks he can show his ass on my turf and get away with it.

I fear that he’ll kill Emery purely because he can, then flee before I have a chance to deal out the insane retribution that’ll come to pass if he so much as harms a hair on her head.

I sip my coffee. It’s too hot and burns my tongue, but I barely notice.

The darkness is not just my friend; it provides anonymity for any fucker with a nefarious plan. I should know—I’ve been the lurking menace many times.

I’m so fired up that I could end up shooting one of the goddamn servers when they bring the check.

I peer through a gap in the bushes to see Alec take Emery’s hand. She’s speaking, sadness plain on her face.

It looks like Emery and her father are trying to make amends. From what she said, Alec was too bent out of shape by his grief to help shepherd his daughter through hers.

Understandable and all too human; I’ve been there, too.

Shame heats me more than the coffee ever could. I used Alec to get to Emery, never considering the harm I was doing to their relationship.

I did something for Alec yesterday in an attempt to take back the harm, but some hurts can’t be undone.

Things were strained between them before I sprung my trap, let alone now. Besides me, Emery only has her father, and I dashed that delicate connection to pieces without a second thought.

What a cunt I am for taking her remaining parent away from her.

After what I went through, you’d think I’d have considered that, but I didn’t. So what’s different now?

Emery, that’s what. She’s making me a better man and teaching me to think beyond myself, whether I like it or not.

I hunker down lower and keep out of Emery’s eyeline. I watch the scene unfold, hoping she and her father can get past this bullshit and hold onto one another, no thanks to me.

God, I hope they find a way through it.