Bratva Sacrifice

Chapter One

Alexei

There is a dead body at my feet. This is nothing unusual. I have created many bodies.

But this one in particular annoys me. His name—before I put a bullet in his skull—was Nicola Russo.

It is only the surname which is important.

The Russos are Italian mafia. Nicola, however, is unimportant.

Was unimportant. Only a foot soldier, and he would never have advanced further despite his father’s hopes for him.

Nicola came from only a small branch of a much more powerful family. But it is a weak one; an idle one.

His father, Giulio, has never advanced beyond capo.

His laziness has always outpaced his ambition.

It is a trait inherited by the son, who carries every bit of his father’s weakness and was a thief besides.

This would ruin them if the larger Russo family were to learn of it.

It is one thing to be a thief, but it is another to steal from family.

Unfortunately for Nicola, it is another thing entirely to steal from me.

“Search him, and then return him to his papa,” I say to the two enforcers with me. “Tell him to expect a call.” My boots are now splattered with his son’s blood. I will want payment for this, as well as for what Nicola stole from me. Perhaps I will wear these boots to our meeting.

I tuck my gun back into the waistband of my jeans, and wait by the car. I told my second, Anatoli, to expect me half an hour ago, and now I am annoyed all over again that dealing with Nicola Russo has made me late.

Piotr, one of my enforcers, offers Nicola’s personal effects to me. There is a small amount of cash and a phone. A burner. Probably Anatoli can break into it. I shove it in my pocket along with the cash.

“How do you want him delivered?” Piotr asks.

The question is meaningful. Really, what he is asking is how much respect I choose to show this man, who raised a son like Nicola.

“I don’t give a fuck. Throw him on the steps,” I answer. “Let the father know he has one week to make amends to me.” I do not bow to men like Giulio Russo, even for the pretense of courtesy. Even meeting with him is beneath me.

I want him to know this. He thinks I will allow his son to steal from me. He thinks he will not answer for this trespass against me. He sends his son scurrying like a rat through my streets.

My phone chirps, two obnoxious beeps.

Anatoli says, “You’re late.”

“Bullshit, I am late,” I tell him. “Business waits for me.”

He grunts. “You resolve this thing with Russo?”

“Something like that.” I nudge the body with the toe of my boot. “Giulio will be angry.” I am looking forward to it. “Piotr will send the body back.”

Another grunt. Anatoli is a man of few words. “I have his records,” he says. “Idiot kept them on his computer. Not even encrypted. You want me to send them?”

To the rest of the Russos, he means. I am not the only one from whom Nicola has been stealing. I could topple Giulio Russo’s entire connection to the rest of his famiglia with these. Make him and his entire pathetic branch into hunted men. But I think it will be more enjoyable to watch him squirm.

“Just bring them to me,” I say.

My men are already rolling Nicola Russo’s corpse into a plastic liner, which will contain the blood. I do not want bits of brain to ruin my upholstery. This is not worth the cleaning cost.

“You think they will go to war?”

I scoff. Giulio’s branch is a small one.

There is not enough manpower within it for a war against me.

He will not risk rallying the more powerful ones when I could so easily turn them upon him.

“Nyet.” Already I have Giulio Russo by the balls.

However furious about the loss of his only child he might be, he will be more worried for his own skin.

“Russo is a coward. He has done nothing worthwhile in his life. He would be a fool to cross me.”

Just like his pathetic son.

∞∞∞

In the early morning hours, there is a long beeeeep that rouses me from a sound slumber. It is the sort of cheap, tinny chime that comes from a burner phone, and I remember—I have Nicola’s burner tucked away in my pocket still.

Who the fuck is texting a dead man? News travels fast in this world. Mafia men gossip worse than old women, especially the Italians.

A text flashes across the lock screen.

Papa hasn’t answered me yet. What does he want for his birthday? And then, Sorry. I know you don’t like me to text you.

My brow furrows. Giulio has only the one child—and now, none.

This is common knowledge. Probably a wrong number.

Or a code I do not recognize? While the text is still on screen, I write down the number it came from.

It is not saved in Nicola’s contacts, so maybe it is nothing.

But I will have Anatoli run it down in the morning anyway.

Information is everything.

And still, I think, as I climb back into bed—maybe Giulio is better at hiding some things than others.

∞∞∞

Anatoli sits down to breakfast. He loves the blini my cook prepares. I like them best with sour cream and caviar—but Anatoli likes to smother them with jam, because he has a terrible sweet tooth.

“Russo begs your forgiveness,” he says dryly. “He is unable to meet until next week. He is preparing a funeral for his only son. His wife is beside herself, and he cannot leave her side even for a moment. He extends his regrets.”

The old man must be pissing himself. This pleases me.

“Of course,” I say. I could insist, but I know Russo will be even more worked up for our eventual meeting.

He will make mistakes. “Send him a funeral wreath.” This is an obvious insult, since I placed his son in the ground.

“And send his wife a fruit basket or some shit.” What does one send to bereaved mothers?

Anatoli slides a folder across the desk to me. It is labeled Catalina.

“The phone number?” I ask.

He shrugs. “The number is from a burner. Certainty is not possible. But the suspicion was enough to merit looking deeper.”

“What is this?” I ask as I thumb through the folder. It is full of pictures, records.

Anatoli says, “Russo has a bastard daughter. Even his wife does not know this.”

Catalina. I browse the pictures Anatoli has collected for me.

She is pretty. She has that soft sort of face many American girls have, like they grew up watching cartoons and eating sugary cereals.

A dimple in her right cheek. Her blonde hair up in a high ponytail.

In one image, she wears a sweatshirt that says University of Illinois across the front.

In another her eyes are crossed as she blows a large pink bubble out of bubble gum.

“She is twenty-four,” Anatoli says. “Just graduated with a Masters in Early Childhood Education.”

Ahh, so Papa Giulio knocked up his wife and his mistress at about the same time. No wonder nobody knows about her.

Except maybe Nicola.

Anatoli is thorough. Catalina’s whole life is contained within this file.

Braces at twelve. Appendectomy at thirteen.

On the birth control shot for irregular periods since she was in her mid-teens.

She went to a private girl’s boarding school on the west coast. She came back to study in Chicago—major in education; minor in history, then directly to her master’s—because her Mama was sick. The woman passed of cancer years ago.

Catalina has no social media presence, no boyfriend, no husband.

Probably her father has kept her life quiet and small on purpose.

She is his insurance policy. A son is a legacy, but a daughter—a daughter is a commodity, valuable in other ways.

His time is drawing to its close, but he can still attach himself to another powerful family. Through marriage.

Now I know what I will demand from him in recompense for the trouble his worthless son has caused me. His only bargaining chip.

∞∞∞

As days pass, there can no longer be any doubt to whom the mystery number belongs.

Texts begin to roll in, slowly at first.

I’m sorry I couldn’t go to your funeral.

Little Catalina has some issues, maybe, if she is texting her dead half-brother.

The Italians revere family, and Papa Giulio married well—though not well enough to secure a better place in his own family’s hierarchy.

Still, his wife’s family supplies most of his money, and he is not keen on alienating them by announcing the fact that he has a bastard daughter out in the world, one who was clearly conceived during his marriage.

This is another string I have to pull. Giulio will dance like a puppet at my command.

Italians are also fanatical about purity—for their women. Probably Catalina is still a virgin. I imagine that Papa would have put the fear of God into anyone who thought to defile his daughter. A lack of virginity would decrease her value, dishonor him before his peers.

She will not be worth much to him when I am finished with her.

I find myself looking through Anatoli’s folder often, in odd moments.

I keep it in the drawer beside my bed. I like to flip through these pictures, mark the progression from girl to woman.

Giulio is not in any of them. Probably he was a distant father at best. I think the woman who dominates her childhood in them must have been her mother.

They have similar faces; soft, sweet. Pretty.

Not beautiful; not in the flagrant, sharp way the women who move in my sphere are. But pretty.