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

Chapter 36

36

Leon

E mery stutters as she speaks, fear choking her words.

“Leon, don’t?—”

“Go,” I snap, my eyes fixed on the threat before me. “Do what I say!”

I want to reassure her, to tell her she’s my world and all that will ever matter. But I can’t split my attention or show weakness, not now, even if it’s my last chance.

Alec is arguing with her, but Emery won’t listen. I block her pleading words, trying not to let them reach my heart.

“Leon!” she cries. Alec is dragging her away now, her voice growing more distant. “Don’t do this!”

“Em, we gotta go,” Alec says. “We gotta get out of here, honey.”

With that, they’re gone, and the shooter laughs behind his mask.

“Just the two of us,” he says. “Alone at last.”

“I warned you,” I say, my gun steadily pointing at his head. “You’ll regret threatening my woman, you fucking idiot.”

“I think you’ll regret following her a lot more.” The shooter is wearing a bandana over the lower half of his face, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, and I know he’s grinning. “You know, for the seconds of life you have left.”

“If I wanted my own comeback, I’d wipe it off your mom’s chin,” I say.

I smirk at his look of disgust. “You have fucked this up royally, my friend. Failed at sniping, ran out of ammo, so had to finish the job face-to-face. And now—what? We’re fucking chatting? You handled this job with the precision and finesse of an epileptic violinist. Wearing boxing gloves.”

He bristles at the insult. Guys like him are so easy to provoke; street-level wannabes with big talk, big guns, and no skills.

I don’t know where Dante got this loser, but I wouldn’t hire the cunt in a million years.

“My boss will be thrilled when I tell him how this went down.” He cocks his head at me. “Do you think I’d be stupid enough to come alone?”

“I did, actually. But?—”

A scream I’ve heard before rings through the air. Emery is not far away; Alec is yelling her name.

Jesus fucking Christ . What the fuck do I do?

Our man on the High Line is sick of my shit. “Toss the gun, you Russian fuck,” he says. “It’s over.”

No time to think it through. Do it .

I release my weapon and immediately drop to the ground, smashing my hip into the concrete.

The pistol lands neatly back in my hand, and I fire two quick shots, destroying both of the man’s kneecaps. He howls as he collapses, blood streaming down his shins.

I don’t care. Shots are being fired somewhere, and Emery is still screaming, a keening peel of pure terror that sears me to the bone.

I’m talking to myself as I run toward the sound.

Bozhe, pomogi mne, pozhaluysta .

God, help me. Don’t take my girl home, not today. I need her.

A streetlight illuminates a scene that is straight from a Goya painting.

A man lies facedown in a puddle of blood, and beside him, Emery cradles her father’s head on her knees, sobbing wretchedly.

“Emery!” I crouch before her and pull her close, pressing my forehead to hers. “ Moya lyubov’ , I’m so fucking sorry. Is he?—”

“No,” she replies, already pulling herself together. “But we gotta get to a hospital so I can?—”

“Emery, we can’t take him to any hospital, let alone yours.” I pull out my cell phone and tap the screen. “Don’t worry. I have a contingency plan for things like this, and his name is Demyan.”

Viktor shows up within ten minutes, and we load the delirious Alec into the back of the car.

The would-be killer with the blown-out knees is in the trunk, a strip of duct tape keeping his whining to a minimum.

As Viktor drives, Emery wheels around from the passenger seat to glare at me.

“So you’re serious?” she asks. “We’re going to Dad’s house—my family home—where your bratva doctor will do everything I could do and more without the authorities getting involved?”

“That’s the gist, yeah.”

Alec is asleep or passed out. The bleeding in his thigh is throttled by a tourniquet made from my belt, and although he’s pale and breathing rapidly, he seems to be doing okay.

Emery leans back to touch his wrist. “He’s cold. Serious shock.”

I had already put my jacket over Alec when he was lying on the road. I pull it over his shoulders and lean him against me so he can leach some of my body’s warmth.

“Viktor, crank the damn heat,” I say.

I gaze at Emery and shake my head. “What Alec did was really something, val’kiriya .”

She closes her eyes. “The man stepped out of the shadows and aimed straight at me. I thought I was going to die, but Dad had your gun. He fumbled it so bad, though; he used to shoot for sport years ago, so I guess he was out of practice.”

I smile. “Nothing wrong with his aim. Center mass, two shots. The guy had no chance. Alec was lucky not to die trying to save you, but he sure as Hell never gave that a thought. I know how he felt.”

Emery frowns. “You gave him his money back. Why?”

“Because I told you I wasn’t like Dante, but when I thought about it, I was exactly like him. Using your father to control you was all too easy, as Dante also realized. But once you and I got closer, I felt like shit for treating you and him that way.”

“You don’t make sense,” she says. “How can you be the man you are? Which version is the genuine article?”

I don’t know. The question haunts me as much as it does her.

Alec groans and tries to sit up before slumping against me again. Emery’s gaze flashes anxiously from her father to me.

“Almost there,” Viktor says. “He’ll be okay, Emery. We’ll get him fixed up.”

I hung around with Demyan Brodsky in college but lost touch with him for years. He was cerebral yet with a menacing edge—a killer combo that got him laid a lot.

Coincidentally, Roman hired him after his brother, also a medic, was murdered by the mafia for failing to save the life of an elderly Godfather who had a terrible temper and equally shitty kidneys.

Demyan is ready for us. He knows his business—get into a private residence, clear a room, set up his equipment, and provide the best medical care money can buy, away from prying eyes. It only takes a minute to get Alec inside and into the hospital bed, set up in what used to be his study.

“I had to break in, I’m afraid.” Demyan smiles at Emery as she inspects the machines. “Now, please step back, Mrs. Vasilieva, while I tend to your father?

Emery draws herself to her full height and folds her arms. “I’m a doctor, too,” she says. “Dr. Emery Bright, ER and trauma lead, New York-Presbyterian, Lower Manhattan.”

Demyan reaches for her, and they shake hands. “My apologies. I could use a hand here.”

I watch as they hook Alec up to wires and tubes, administering drugs and taking down stats.

Emery strokes her father’s brow.“We’ll get that slug out of you, Dad,” she murmurs. “Hang tough, okay?”

Demyan nods, adjusting his glasses as he snips through the fabric of Alec’s trouser leg.

“Yep, we can get that done. Obviously, it’s not quite theatre conditions, but all my portable equipment is sterile, so he should be fine.” He looks up. “You want to assist, doctor? I’d appreciate it.”

I try to catch my wife’s eye, but she’s focused on the task at hand. I can only step aside and let her work.

Viktor and I retreat to the lounge, and he pours me a large vodka.

“So let me get this straight.” I take the glass. “I get a message implying that someone was out to abduct or hurt my wife, but weirdly, it arrives when I’m already there. Why do you think that is?”

Viktor arches a brow as he sips his drink. “Because Mr. No-Knees, who is currently crying like a bitch on the kitchen floor, is the one who sent the message?”

“You got it.” I sit heavily in an armchair. “Monitoring me is hard to do without getting caught, and I’ve kept Emery close since the wedding. Alec is another matter. I suspect Dante enlisted Alec to draw Emery away from my side so she’d be safely out of the line of fire when his men came to kill me. Except keeping Emery safe was never the priority.”

“So when she agreed to meet Alec at the cafe, he called Dante’s contact and told him where to be. Then Dante’s man contacted you and gave you an anonymous heads-up, knowing the threat to Emery would draw you into a vulnerable position.”

I throw the vodka back in one. “You got it,” I say. “And he was right. Dante’s not just coming for me. He’s coming for everything. My empire, my reputation—and her. If he can’t kill me, he’ll make me watch her bleed. That’s the kind of guy he is. And like an idiot, I walked right into the trap.”

“I don’t get why he’s playing games with you at all,” Viktor says. “So you stole his bride and humiliated him, yeah. But he knows who you are now; you’d think he’d run until his legs were stumps.”

It’s a damn good point. I can’t ignore the pervasive feeling that I’m missing something important, but what?

Even if Dante turns out to be a human trafficker extraordinaire, it doesn’t explain his insistence on drawing me out to fight.

I head for the drink trolley for another shot, but Viktor stops me with a palm on my chest.

“Steady, Leon. She’s okay, and her father will be fine. We’ll make sure he’s under guard while he convalesces. Now, what shall we do with Dante’s little soldier?”

This whole evening has been a debacle. I’m in the mood for apportioning blame, and the more I can make it someone else’s problem, the less I have to think about the fact that it was all my fault.

I failed to protect. Again.

“If you can spare five minutes, tovarishch ,” I say, flexing my fingers, “you’re welcome to pull up a pew and have a word with him. Take him away from here, and I’ll catch up with you later.”

“You don’t want to do it yourself?”

“I do,” I reply. “But nothing is more important than my wife; she needs me right now.”