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

Chapter 44

44

Dante

M y men are dropping like flies.

I’ve lost another one now; Anton’s brother Michael hasn’t called in since I sent him to pay Leon and Emery a visit.

There are only a couple of options—the bastard could be dead, having snitched on me or not, circumstances depending. He may also have switched sides, been arrested, or bailed on me for some reason, but none of these possibilities are good for me.

“You worry too much,” Anton says, looking through his binoculars at the shoreline for the millionth time. “Fabrizio is the only one who could be alive, and he must be in the hospital; if he wasn’t, we’d have heard from him.”

“Fabrizio is dead or will be soon,” I reply. “I sent someone to take care of him and that fucking kid too. Desi, the one Leon saved.”

“That’s a bit too far, Dante.” Anton doesn’t look my way. “Fabrizio won’t snitch, and what the fuck do you think the kid’s gonna do? You don’t need to kill him.”

“His life isn’t worth living. Consider it an act of mercy.” My voice takes on a vicious edge. “But maybe you oughta concern yourself with what I’ll do to Michael when I get my hands on him.” Anton clears his throat. “You know that brother of mine; he’s probably sharing his STDs with a whore as we speak.”

“We have whores right here.” I try to catch Anton’s eye, but he resists, keeping his face turned from mine. “And he didn’t kill Leon Vasiliev. If he had, we’d have heard about it. You got a handful of buddies who’d know, right?”

“Yeah, but I got nothing. None of the losers I know have shown up at the usual haunts. That’s where I’ve been all day, trying to get the news.”

This is the first time he’s mentioned it; when I asked earlier, he was cagey, giving me some non-committal bullshit about a business meeting.

“Who’s the client?” I ask. “I know it’s usually your province, so I can keep my face out of the deal, but I don’t like your fucking attitude lately, so I want a name.”

“Former police captain. He got fingered for a racketeering charge and lost his pension, so he might as well lean into the rough trade and invest in the meat markets. Guy took a lot of bribes in his time and has cash to burn.”

“A name, I said!”

Franco appears from below decks, sporting a freshly minted graze on his cheekbone.

“That little Czech cunt tagged me good,” he says, pointing at his face. “Let me hit her back, Dante. One punch to pulp her pretty face.”

“Which is why you don’t get to do it, idiot. If you mess her up, she’s not worth as much unless we can find a sicko who’d go for that.”

I throw him a disgusted sneer. “You’re talking about Tereza? You let that heroin-addled fuckmeat get the drop on you? I can’t trust you with anything.”

Franco picks up the vodka and splashes it onto a bar towel, dabbing his sore spot, but he keeps his mouth shut.

Fucking losers.

I’m reduced to working with these country rubes, men with proud Sicilian legacies that didn’t trickle down the generations. Mafia by name but not nature.

My father always said I was meant for greatness. Not because he believed in me—he was never the type to motivate with love—but because he felt the world owed him.

I was and am the instrument of my father’s ambition, and when I came to New York, I was ready to take what should be mine.

The trafficking got me leverage over the politicians and fat cats who liked to fuck scared young girls and ignored their tears.

Then I crossed Leon Vasiliev, of all people. Pakhan of the bratva and the symbol of my world crashing down.

They say those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it, but knowing that didn’t stop me from making rash decisions over and over again.

Baiting Leon was unwise. I drew attention to myself, and once he established the connection between me and the trafficking, he had a legitimate reason to hound me out.

The man has unmatched power over the city, but it’s worse than that; he commands loyalty. His bratva is a fraternity like no other, and unlike my easily-bought crew of cold-footed assholes, they will never let him down.

Anton’s six shots in, drinking too hard, too fast. He wanders back to the deck rail and scans the horizon, bottle in hand.

“Your nerves troubling you, Anton?”

“Wuh?” He allows himself to look at me for a moment, but he still can’t hold my gaze. It’s like he wants to be drunk so he can use it as an excuse. “Nah. I’m all good.”

What did Papa tell me? Trust your gut, Dante. Don’t underestimate anyone, ever. You never know who’ll sneak up and fuck you in the ass.

“You know what, boys?” I stand and snatch the bottle from Anton’s hand. “You’re always saying I should cut you some slack, let you run things. So how about I take the dinghy ashore and leave this transaction to you? You can have a bigger cut, and I’m happier in a quayside bar anyway.”

Franco’s eyes light up with greed, but Anton shakes his head. “Be better if you were here, boss. New guys and all. Don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

I’ve never known Anton turn down money. Just like that, the traitorous fuck has given himself away.

“The client’s name, Anton. What is it?”

He pauses for a beat too long. “Dennis Flaherty. Irish, old money. Owns bars and a mall upstate.”

It’s a smooth lie, but a lie nonetheless.

“Okay,” I say. “You certain you don’t wanna handle this yourselves?”

Franco pipes up, sounding irritable. “He doesn’t speak for me. I can cut a deal. Just give me a chance.”

“See?” I say to Anton. “You have Franco here to watch your back, and the boys downstairswon’t mind helping out if you need your hand holding.”

The motorized dinghy auto-inflates in thirty seconds, and I toss it into the water before clambering down the exterior ladder, the electric outboard over my shoulder. Anton watches me, his face twitching as he tries to maintain a neutral expression.

“Good luck, fellas,” I say as the boat engine hums to life. Anton unhooks the rope as I make an arcing turn, pointing the boat toward the harbor lights. “Oh, and Anton?”

“Yeah?”

I snatch my pistol from its holster and shoot him neatly between the eyes, an easy shot at close range. He gives a gargling snort, the surprise frozen on his face, and keels overboard.

Franco doesn’t move or speak, not daring to risk getting the same treatment. He’s smart; he knows I’m a mood shooter who prefers vibes to reasons.

I watch Anton disappear into the depths, bubbles rushing to the surface as he goes down. He sinks fast; dead weight always does.

“You’re up,” I shout, pointing at Franco. “Clean up the fucking merchandise and make the transaction. Call me when you’re through.”