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

Chapter 45

45

Leon

“ S o this Anton guy set up a bogus deal with you to—what? Buy slaves?”

“Essentially, yes,” Roman replies, retrieving weapons from the trunk. “We just gotta catch up with The Cobra, flash the lights, and board peacefully. It’ll be me and Viktor; Dante never got a good look at us before he ran out of the wedding, but he’ll recognize you, so you gotta stay out of sight.”

“And then?” I ask.

“A good old-school pirate raid,” Viktor laughs. “We’ll rush the fuckers, lock it down, and get the innocent people out of here on Roman’s yacht.”

He points at the boat, bustling with the crew and our bratva’s footsoldiers. “This isn’t the same one you used to have.”

“Correct.” Roman slings a holdall over his shoulder, a telescopic sight sticking out of the gap in the zip. “I downsized. The super-yacht was embarrassing.”

I take in the smaller but still impressive vessel. The name Rusalka is emblazoned on the side, and I smile—it’s the nickname Roman gave his wife, Quinn.

We get the gear onto the boat, and within a few minutes, we’re sliding silently out of the harbor. We pass a couple of pleasure cruisers on their way back into the midtown dock, and tourists wave enthusiastically as we glide by.

“They’ll be watching the news tomorrow and telling people they saw us,” Viktor says as I wave back. “For all we know, those boats are loaded with spies.”

“Sure.” I throw him an incredulous look. “Dante Firenze, the no-mark king of fuck-ups, hiding spies with foam Lady Liberty hats and footlong margaritas? Get a grip, tovarishch . He’s got nothing.”

This is the only thing I’m sure of. I don’t believe Dante has anyone left who isn’t on The Cobra with him; we put the word out and couldn’t catch a whiff of collaboration on our streets.

A few guys said they’d shot pool with men suspected to be Dante’s Italian buddies, but they didn’t have sense enough to curry favor; if anything, they’d mostly pissed people off.

I have to wonder; as a stranger with no one to vouch for him, why did Dante think he would be taken seriously?

The question must have occurred to his paltry crew, too—once things began to unravel, so did they.

Dante thought fear could build an empire, but fear crumbles faster than loyalty. Shared values and goals are what make unbreakable bonds like the ones I have with Roman and Viktor; these are the foundations that make our bratva what it is, and we will always fight for it.

A chancer like Dante could never understand that.

We spot The Cobra within twenty minutes of setting out, recognizable by its fucking stupid snake flag.

Once we’ve performed the pre-agreed coded flashing lights sequence—thanks for the intel, Anton—they lower their flag and signal us to approach.

We move into position like it’s routine, but nothing about this feels like an average bratva skirmish.

“Get below, Leon,” Roman says. “We’re tooled up and ready. We’ll lead the others and get control fast, then you can board and find Dante.”

“Don’t kill him,” I say. “I mean it, Roman. He’s a nasty cunt and will get your back up, but try to keep your head so you don’t blow off his.”

Roman nods, handing a belt of grenades to Viktor. “I’ll hold off, I promise. How many do you think are on board?”

“Civilians? No idea,” I shrug. “Could be any number of Dante’s men, but I doubt they’ll put up much of a fight once they realize they’re rumbled. Let’s just get this over with.”

I look Viktor up and down. “Have you forgotten your fucking Kevlar? How many goddamn times we gotta go through this?”

“Fuck, sorry.” Viktor grabs a vest from the lockbox on the deck.

“I’m gonna get a reminder tattooed on your arm,” I say. “You think I wanna have to tell your mom that my stepson was killed by a fatal dose of his own stupidity?”

“So many years you’ve been threatening to marry my mother, and now that joke is finally defunct because you married Emery,” Viktor says with a grin.

I flip him off. “I’m gonna take my famous face out of the frame. As soon as you’ve taken The Cobra, I’ll come aboard and take up my grievance with Dante.”

“What shall we do with their boat?” Roman asks. “Your call, Boss.”

Roman’s a damn good friend. He handed me his bratva to hold in trust so he could step down, but he’s never once held it over me.

He’s no longer pakhan, and he’s okay with that because he knows I’d never freeze him out. We built this empire together, fighting shoulder to shoulder, and this raid feels like old times.

“We got plenty of grenades?” I ask.

“More than we could ever need,” Roman replies. “I brought everything in the armory, which was enough to obliterate a small country.”

“Or a large boat.” I turn away, making for the stairs that lead below the deck. “I say we send the floating trash pile to the bottom of the river, bodies and all. Now, let’s do this.”

The sound of our engine’s motor blends with another, louder one, and I realize we’re pulling alongside The Cobra.

I take a moment to check my phone, but Emery hasn’t messaged me. Then I see I have no phone signal, not even one flickering bar to depend on.

I can’t wait to look at Dante’s face as he bitches and begs. That bastard has caused me a world of trouble, but worse—he hurt my wife. More than once, in many ways, until she was a shell of the woman she should have been.

I had to take her apart and put her back together, and she still has a way to go.

Emery is stronger than her idiot ex-fiancé could possibly understand. It’s tempting to take him prisoner and deliver him hog-tied to my wife’s feet, but it’s too risky.

Better to make a clean sweep tonight and put the whole sordid matter to rest so Emery and I can get on with our lives.

Muffled voices overhead. Roman, making contact with someone. All he has to do is get boots on their deck and?—

A sound above me like thunder. Our boys were waiting in the adjacent under-deck lounge, and it sounds like all of them are running up at once. The racket above is almost deafening, like a game of ten-pin bowling inside my head.

Gunshots. Yelling.

Already? This is getting ugly real fast.

I can’t sit here like an idiot; people might be hurt. People who shouldn’t be here in the first place.

My thoughts flash to Desi, small and pale in his hospital bed, grief leaching the vitality from him more than his gunshot wound ever did.

I don’t care if I die as long as I take out Dante and save the people he was trying to sell into slavery.

Emery would be okay; safer without me, in fact, as she wouldn’t be a target if her Russian mafia boss husband was killed.

My gun is clean and fully loaded. I click off the safety and emerge from the cabin, climbing the stairs two at a time.

The deck is deserted. Someone tied Rusalka to The Cobra to stop them drifting; on the other boat, it’s mayhem.

Roman has some luckless idiot on his knees, a gun pressed to the man’s eye socket. I can’t see Viktor, but sobbing and wailing drifts into the night sky from somewhere in the bowels of the vessel.

I vault the gap and board The Cobra, several other men in tow, just as Viktor appears.

“We tried to take prisoners, but there were literally three guys down there,” he says. “Shot them all dead. We had no choice; they didn’t think to take hostages, but we caught them on the hop, and they opened fire as soon as they saw us. A girl got winged, but she’s alright.”

“Where the fuck is Dante?” I ask. “Was he down there too? He’s dead?”

“No.” Viktor looks exasperated. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s not fucking here.”

I turn to Roman. His face is twisted with anger, and he’s bearing down harder on his mark, a man with lank hair and a scruffy beard.

“Who’s your friend?” I ask.

“This is Franco,” Roman says. “As soon as he realized who we were and what was happening, he folded. I’m almost annoyed at how easy it was; I haven’t had a good scrap in ages.”

He nods at me. “Tell Leon your story, and we’ll see what he thinks, shall we?”

Roman withdraws his gun. Franco slides a jaundiced eye my way, fixing his gaze on my face.

“ Madonna, lo giuro con la mia vita .” His voice is steadier than I expected. “I swear on my life, capo . Anton never said a word to Dante, but the stronzo guessed he wasn’t on the level and shot him. Poor guy is fish food.”

I’d think he was full of shit if it weren’t for the cadence and strength in his delivery. The man has a lot of confidence for one who’s at imminent risk of death, and it gives me pause.

“Tell me what was supposed to happen here,” I say.

Franco swallows and composes himself. “Anton set up a deal with a client. Dante thought it would give him a fresh injection of cash—he was running low—and then he could marshal his forces and make a fresh assault on your territory. We all thought he was deluded, but he wouldn’t listen.”

He closes his eyes as the truth dawns. “Ah. There was no client, and Anton did screw Dante over. I can’t say I blame him.”

“Where did Dante go?”

“He took his dinghy and went ashore. He’s probably watching us right now—the boat is bugged to fuck.”

“So if Dante can see and hear us, why are you telling me this?” I ask with a frown. “Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll do to your family? Anton was terrified of him.”

Franco’s shoulders sag. “I got no one left. That’s why I came here, to start again. Helping you get to Dante is my last play, so I’m doing that.”

He lifts his head, staring into the lens of a camera mounted on the lower mast. “You listening to me, Firenze? You fucked up bad. Leon Vasiliev won’t let you scurry away like a rat!”

“Shut up,” I say. “You wanna survive the night? Go help Viktor get the women and children onto our yacht.”

Franco reaches his feet and scrambles for the stairs with Viktor at his heels. I’m about to confer with Roman when a cry comes up from below.

“Get him away from me!”

A girl appears in the stairwell doorway. She’s young, twenty-five at the most, and her limbs are thin as matchsticks.

Her eyes are doll-like in her gaunt face, and she clutches her moth-eaten cardigan, wrapping it around her body to fend off the cold.

“Please,” she says. “He wants my daughter. She’s only seven years old.” She wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Don’t let him touch her!”

I take off my jacket and wrap it around her. Viktor is behind her, his large hand pinching the back of Franco’s skinny neck as he frog-marches him my way.

“You left out a lot of the story, Franco, I say.”

I hold my hand toward Viktor, and he gives me his pistol. I sigh.

“Give me your goddamn knife. I know you have one.”

He passes me the blade. “I thought you said knives were too personal?”

“This is personal.” I glance at the shivering girl. “What’s your name? And your daughter?”

“I’m Tereza,” she stammers. “My little girl is Sofie.”

I nod and give Franco my attention once more. “This is for Tereza, Sofie, and everyone else you treated like they were less than human.”

This isn’t justice. It’s not vengeance, either. It’s just necessary—like breathing or loving my wife.

Emery is the only person whose forgiveness matters to me. I won’t repent for what I’m about to do.

Killing this piece of shit will reduce the evil in the world, and who knows, maybe it’ll help balance the books.

I press the sharp edge to Franco’s quivering throat, and he begins to gibber and flail, but it’s too late.

A line of crimson gives way to a waterfall. Viktor dumps the dying man onto the deck, and we watch him for the few seconds it takes him to bleed out.

To my surprise, Tereza doesn’t look away; her eyes glitter with satisfaction as her tormentor’s life force pools on the wooden floor.

Strong girl; I like her.

Roman holds up the grenade belt, and I nod.

“You read my mind, bratan ,” I say. “Blow this shit-heap to kingdom come.”

I raise my arms and my voice. “See that, Dante? You’re out of men. Out of moves. All your spare lives are gone—and you better believe I’m coming for the last one.”