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

Chapter 50

50

Leon

I sit on the bench beside Jess. Her shoulders quake as she sobs, her head in her hands.

“I was so scared,” she whispers. “Oh God. I didn’t know this would happen.”

When I arrived in the ER, Emery was nowhere to be seen, and the tracker was showing an error message, so I scanned around for a familiar face.

Jess was there, tending to a patient. When she spotted me, she went sheet white and bolted, so I had to follow her to the staff changing room, lock the door, and demand answers.

My instincts were right on the money. There was no emergency. No crisis to which my wife would feel duty-bound to respond.

Someone forced Jess to make the call. And Emery—being Emery—ran straight into the trap.

“Explain to me exactly what happened,” I say, handing Jess a tissue. She blows her nose and tries to steady herself.

“I was on shift, wondering where Emery was, when a janitor asked me to let him into a treatment room so he could clean it—apparently, it was locked. I followed him. It was one of the rooms tucked away off the corridor. I reached for the door, but it wasn’t locked at all.”

She swallows hard. “That’s when he shoved me inside.”

Simple, brutal, and effective. The kind of plan I would have used.

“It wasn’t Dante?”

“No, I’d have recognized him. This guy was taller.” Her voice wavers. “He wore a face mask and had a gun. He knew about my son. Told me if I didn’t do what he said, he’d get to him.”

A shudder racks her frame. “I had no choice. I had to say whatever it took to get Emery out of your apartment.”

“Jesus,” I murmur. “She wanted to come here anyway. She didn’t only because I put a guard on her.”

Jess laughs bitterly, dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes. “No wonder I had to lay it on so thick.”

Her lip quivers, and she sucks in a deep breath, trying to stave off fresh tears. “I told her there’d been an incident. That we had kids in who’d been shot. All lies, but it lit a fire under her.”

Fuck .

Emery knew what was going down tonight. She would have assumed I was involved in whatever bloodshed I’d set in motion.

And the worst part? She could feasibly have been right.

“That’s not even the worst part,” Jess says.

I frown. “There’s more?”

“One thing I told her was true.” She looks down at her lap. “The little boy you brought in—Desi—was supposed to be transferred to an orphanage tomorrow. I knew she’d want to say goodbye.”

A cold weight settles in my gut.

“And?” I prompt, a little too sharply.

Jess shakes her head, her whole body trembling. “I’m terrified, Leon. Kill me if you want, but don’t let anything happen to Bobby.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, my voice steady. She lifts her eyes to mine, and I hold her gaze. “But you need to tell me everything. Once we’re done here, I’ll have you and your son taken somewhere safe.”

She nods rapidly. “After I called Emery, the guy let me return to work like nothing happened. I walked out of that room, dazed, barely keeping it together. A doctor told me to take a break, so I went to the bathroom and threw up.”

She’s stalling, giving me unnecessary details. Fear does that to people.

“Jess.” I cut through her rambling. “Get to the point.”

She rubs her face with her palms. “When I went back out, I was looking for Emery, but I never saw her. I thought maybe she changed her mind. Then I went to check on Desi.”

Her voice cracks. “But he was gone. Blood on the floor by the nightstand.”

A sharp, electric pulse rushes through my limbs. Keep it together and listen.

“I checked the system,” she says numbly, “but he wasn’t formally discharged. Someone walked out of the hospital with him.”

“That easily?” I ask, aghast.

Jess scoffs. “We don’t expect people to be abducted , Leon. Security is here for drunks and junkies causing trouble, not kidnappers. If someone knew what they were doing, it wouldn’t be hard to slip out unnoticed—especially at night.”

Something isn’t adding up.

“If they had Emery,” I say slowly, “why let you go? The guy must have known I’d talk to you.”

Jess doesn’t hesitate. “He wanted me to tell you. He said he hoped the knowledge that you let Emery down would drive you crazy.”

Something inside me cracks open. The locker room feels airless, like the walls are pressing in.

I’ve been focused on finding my wife—moving, acting, doing. There’s been no space for doubt, no cracks for the intrusive thoughts to slip through.

Until now. I did this.

“It’s my fucking fault,” I say hoarsely, running a shaking hand through my hair. “I’m sorry I frightened you—you’ve had enough of that for one night.”

Jess exhales sharply. “You look like you’re gonna throw up too, Leon.” She shakes her head, exhaustion in every line of her body. “You really do love Emery, don’t you?”

“I do.” The words barely make it past the tightness in my throat. “God help me, yes, I do.”

I stand and help her to her feet. “I’ll find her if I have to burn this entire city to the ground. Fuck knows it deserves it.”

My phone rings. I almost drop it in my haste to answer. Please, let it be her.

But it’s Roman.

“Viktor and I followed you,” he says. “We’re parked outside. What the fuck are you doing?”

I grip the phone too hard. “Someone took Emery. And the kid.”

Saying it aloud burns it into me like a brand, and a roar tears from my throat as I slam my fist into a locker, denting the metal.

This is it. This is the moment that breaks me.

“I’ll tear myself to pieces if she’s dead, Roman. I will be a one-man war machine. The sky will fall on this shithole city, I swear to God?—”

“Leon. Tovarishch .” Roman’s calm tone cuts through my spiraling rage. “What did you tell me when Quinn was taken?”

I exhale shakily. “To keep my head on a swivel. Use the bratva, stay on task, and bring the whole sorry mess to a close as quickly and cleanly as possible.”

“Correct.” Roman’s voice is iron. “So what’s to do, brat?”

Five minutes later, Jess is in Viktor’s car, on her way home to collect her son and take an impromptu trip across to her parent’s place in Baltimore.

Someone realized Desi was missing, and the cops were called, but when they saw me and Roman sitting on the wall outside the ER, they knew something was up. I shook my head, and that was all it took.

The officers were polite and efficient, took a few notes, and went away, promising to do everything they could. They will hang back until they discover the bratva’s involvement, but the implications are severe.

This city has been through this before.

Grievances playing out in what should be safe havens, like hospitals. There was a time when high-profile people were afraid to send their kids to school because the city’s underworld had abandoned old codes of honor that held them in check.

The Sicilians who immigrated here all those years ago would be ashamed of what their descendants became, as would the Muscovite old guard who founded the first bratva.

The mob cannot devolve into those feral ways.

My parents’ deaths radicalized me and made me who I am, and alongside Roman, we made sure innocent people would not get caught up in the war games that play out amongst the elite criminals of New York.

I’ll die to protect that principle. But Emery is caught up in this bullshit, and she wouldn’t be if it weren’t for me.

I stole her from Dante and, in doing so, dragged her from a bad situation to a worse one. I thought my obsession—my love —would make up for the cesspit of my world, but it wasn’t enough.

I couldn’t protect her. It was the one thing I had to get right, and I failed.

I take out my cell phone and recheck the tracker, but it’s still out of commission. I tap forlornly at the screen, redialling Emery’s number for the hundredth time, wanting only to hear her voice and that sweet laugh on her voicemail.

To my astonishment, the dial tone picks up to silence, the rush of dead air loud in my ear.

Hope is like a stiletto blade in my heart, piercing and keen, and I leap to my feet.

“Emery? Moya zhena , my love, speak to me, please.”

“I deactivated her phone tracker,” Dante says. “Wasn’t difficult. I was gonna run, but I thought I’d take a minute to indulge myself.”

Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be her, but it still hurts.

“I couldn’t bear to pull off a masterstroke like this and not take the credit,” Dante says, his sneer audible in his tone. “So, in case there was any doubt—I have your fat slut bride and that worthless kid. You’ll never see either of them again.”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Roman is staring at me, beseeching me with his eyes to calm down, but I’m beyond that. “You must have demands. I ruined you, so is that it? Do you want money? Take whatever you want and the rest, but if you harm my wife, I swear I’ll?—”

“I don’t want money,” Dante spits. “A man like you looks but never fucking sees. There’s something fundamental that you’ve missed.”

“I don’t care!” I cry. “Fuck you and your games. Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Respect? My fucking dues?” He laughs mirthlessly. “Too late. You took my life apart piece by piece, and while I can’t do the same to you, I can take the only piece that matters.”

“I’ll find you,” I hiss. “I will hunt you down. And when I have you cornered, you’ll beg to die, Dante Firenze. Do you think you’ve felt pain before? Not like I’ll inflict if you hurt my wife. I have ways and means that your worst nightmares can’t touch.”

“She’s my seed capital,” Dante says. “My start-up investment. You wanted me out of your hair? You got it. But Emery will be a whore, and Desi a slave.”

He laughs. “When I shoot her up with heroin, she’ll finally lose some weight.”

“Dante, you?—”

“I hope you live a long life, Leon. Just so you can relive this agony every single fucking day. Ciao .”

A click. And then—nothing.

No sound, no voice, no taunts. Just silence, stretching into eternity.

All I get when I call back is the drone of a recorded message saying the number is no longer in service.

I may never hear her voice again.

I want to rage, set something on fire, kill someone in cold blood, anything. Anything to feel more than this weighted, suffocating numbness that pulls me to the ground like an anchor.

I sink to my knees, but Roman won’t have it.

He drags me to my feet and gives me a starshiy ofitser slap to the face. It’s what a leader does to recalibrate the senses and pull a broken man back on track.

I wouldn’t let anyone else do that, but he’s my friend, and God help me—I need him.

“That’s your desperate moment over,” Roman says, grabbing my shoulder. “We’ll find her, Leon. Let’s get moving.”